


I Hope You Linger

by little_luna



Series: Reflection [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Clans, Genderfluid Character, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Oral Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, tribes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:25:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 92,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1873026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_luna/pseuds/little_luna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were called, most commonly, qual’a’tao, one of the few ancient words that had been carried with their legend for generations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really couldn't just leave it alone, and I had to go back and write more. This work will hopefully make sense by itself, but it will make much more sense if the [first part](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1340119) is read!
> 
> This will be quite the challenge for me, as each chapter will have a different pairing, and one chapter in particular will have quite a surprise.
> 
> Title is a lyric in 'Reflection' by Balance and Composure.

There were many words for them, but at this point in the present history, they were regarded as legends, myths, and they wove through folklore so easily, as if they had always belonged within the stories that blurred the lines of lands and territories, of enemy tribes and allies. No one could argue that they hadn’t always existed, that their legend didn’t stem from creation itself, not the tribesmen or women, not the elders, or the healers, and especially not the spiritually blessed. Their story was as old as any could remember, and to this day they remained as pillars of ever changing spirituality, for their legend was the very essence of cyclical change, of the seasons, of death and rebirth, of the ongoing rotation of time.

 

They were called, most commonly _, qual’a’tao_ , one of the few ancient words that had been carried with their legend for generations. In that olden language it simply translated to ‘ _those of that time’_. But of which time was a mystery among itself, as no living beings carried that sacred title, the blessed curse had not claimed any individual in a great number of years.

 

What was known of them was limited, as they had not appeared for generations among any peoples, and the knowledge that remained of them was scarce at best. A horrid disease had swept across the lands in years past, the first to have perished were the elders, the keepers of the many tribes’ knowledge and mythology, and without any documentation except for word of mouth, much was lost. The few stories that remained were the ones told during night fires, when children and adults alike would gather around the burning embers in the center, hearing of the _qual’a’tao_ with unwavering attention, imagining what they looked like, in what world had they originated, if their souls were present within any of them at that moment.

 

Across the span of peoples, presumably the young, there is a small anxiety that one is a _qual’a’tao._ To say it was constantly on the minds of the children and adolescents would be an exaggeration, but not an entirely outlandish one. While there are no known external signs of that lay claim to the title of being _of that time_ , there is an understood internal metamorphosis that takes place, especially prominent to occur during the cusp of young adulthood. Of the fragments of information that remained from the elder’s stories of years past, it is known that those individuals who find themselves to be _qual’a’tao_ are marred with visions of unknown places, of unknown demons and people. The belief has come to be that those visions, seen by no one but a  _qual’a’tao_ , could hold unspeakable truths, could be a bridge from the heavens to the people, or could be prophetic knowledge of disasters to come.

 

At the present time, it is truly unknown what this mysterious world is, where it is, and why it has held the souls of few, only to birth them again during the long years of existence. This is the curse of the blessing of being a _qual’a’tao_ , for one’s soul to never receive true peace, drifting through the cycle of years, of wars, of seasons, until the end is decided. Those that are _from that time_ will forever remember it, must adjust to the faith that they will never forget that horrid world that is a communality among all their kind, but must continue on in pursuit, searching for the reason of their newly granted existence once more.

 

An accompanying story during night fires, when the _qual’a’tao_ are talked about more seriously than just solely a myth, it is asked in what their souls are in search of, why they must continue existing as an on going entity. Elders have theorized, rather romantically, that _qual’a’tao_ are broken, incomplete creatures themselves, forever seeking one another for companionship. For no one understands their struggles like their own kind. When one exists, it is revealed that others do as well, and with this internal awareness they search for each other, across lands and great distances, until they find the one that fits them perfectly, the one that carefully puts them back together with gentle hands and familiar eyes.

 

The idea of star-crossed lovers, adored and spread by the trickster, cackling elders, brings a bit of relief for those that sympathize with the battered, recycled souls. While they don’t voice it, many believe that with all the struggles _qual’a’tao_ must endure, the idea of finding that one who has searched for you with such fierce determination is quite settling in a world of uncertainty. Whether the elders truly believe in the stories they tell the others, there is another belief common among various tribes that seems to blend in fluidly with their love stories. It is believed that two souls are born from the same star, their creation into this world is sometimes messy and imbalanced, but the connection this possesses is often inevitable, intense, and bewildering among two people when it is first discovered.

 

More often then not, unions between different clans are made in terms of continuing peace and alliances. The connection that is romanticized so often in stories of gods and goddesses from the heavens is lost, never to be felt among individuals. Therefore, many quietly believe that the only ones who feel this enchanted, other-worldly attachment are the _qual’a’tao_ , searching for the other part of their soul from which they were created.

 

Of course, much of it is speculation. The legends begin to fall of deaf ears as clan members get older, the stories that captured their imagination as children only become tall-tales. Members fall into their duties with stronger, durable bodies, meant for hunting, gathering, clothes making, herb drying, processing, drying fish, tending to children, tending to livestock and companion animals. There becomes so much to do within their daily lives of survival that the _qual’a’tao_ become distant thoughts.

 

That is, until a selected few begin to having visions of tall, enclosing structures, of giants with enormous mouths and lifeless eyes, of flying against meticulous structures and enormous trees, of a world they have never seen before, one so real it is as if they had been there before.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Levi and Erwin.

They began by running.

 

But first, he made preparations weeks in advance. Each week he would continue work on the weapons he had hidden within the forest, ones of his own crafting, a blade made of animal bone, arrows that he meticulously crafted from igneous rock, flint knapped for hours until the rocks took the form of pointed perfection. Lastly, he made a bow, picking a thick, flexible wood, shaping and bending the material until it was smooth and molded, he picked tall grasses that grew close to the lake’s edge, separating, then braiding them to make cordage. He stored the tools in an area out of the way for many, an area that most did not trek for the fear of the volatile animals that inhabited the space.

 

Within the hours of the night, a particular night where the warmth of a new spring season was just within reach, he roused himself when he heard the relaxed, deep breathing of his brothers and sisters surrounding him. He felt the pangs of separation already blooming in his chest, but he did not spare a glance to those that had taken him in when he was only a boy.

 

_They are not blood._

_They are not family._

 

He repeated the mantra in his head, hoping to find solace in the cruel words. He had no true family, the bloodlines from which he originated were a mystery to himself and others, but within this clan of the Northwestern territory, he found acceptance and years of nurturing. Yet he could not stay, he felt the pull of a force greater than anything he had ever experienced before. It was terrifying, yet a sensation with a familiarity that felt distant. That force alone pulled him from the only companionship he had been blessed to know, from the tented enclosure in which they slept, and to the forest.

 

He unearthed the weapons, sweeping the dirt away with the little light the moon provided. He took the arrows from the ground, placing them within their holder, the hallowed remains of a bone from a larger animal. He remembered the animal well, it took several of his clansmen to pursue it, himself included. He slung the holder across his back with the memory fading, repositioning the strap to fit comfortably against his furred clothing. He picked up the bow in one hand, then his blade. With his weapons at the ready he looked ahead to the enveloping thickness of the forest, how the canopy overhead seemed to be formed by its leaves reaching out for one another, as if it was a desperate embrace. The forest was quiet at this time, asleep, but always listening for a sound out of place.

 

The blade suddenly felt heavy in his hand, the weight of his arrows pulling at his back, the darkness between the thicket of the trees seeming more daunting the longer he stared, its void a shield for the unknown. Even so, he willed himself to push forward, taking a few careful steps, hearing the imposingly harsh sounds of dirt ring loud in the calm night. He would have to move quickly in the hope that others would not hear his rustling, but before he could step forward he heard a straining noise, it was behind him rather then below his own feet from his weight on the ground.

 

“Will you come back?” he heard a small voice say, the tone so delicate it sounded like a child.

 

Levi did not dare turn around, the voice unfamiliar, an unappreciated anchor holding him to this land for a moment longer than necessary.

 

“I do not know,” he said truthfully, his body edging to move forward.

 

“Take me with you,” the small voice commanded, Levi’s resolve faltering enough for him to turn around to steal a glance.

 

He recognized her immediately, even in the hours of the dark. Her hair was as black as his, her stature and build nearly identical. But in that moment he did not dwell on her familiar characteristics, but rather her shocking presence, for no one had seen her in quite some time.

 

“Akane, when did you arrive from your journey?”

 

He saw her eyes look away, as if focusing on a thought that required her full attentiveness.

 

“Days ago,” she replied, her eyes still not returning to his concerned gaze, but her voice cutting as sharply as her sounds of surprise from before.

 

As he audibly inhaled, questions bubbling on his lips for the girl, she stopped him, “Take me with you, Levi.”

 

Her eyes snapped to his, her jaw locking in the moonlight. Levi noted the abandon in her eyes, no longer were they downcast with sadness, they looked at him with challenge.

 

“Will no one mourn for you?” he asked, only relentless questions seeming to form on his tongue for he did not understand her eagerness to leave the close community that raised the two.

 

“There is no one left to mourn for me. I arrived days ago, I arrived alone,” she informed him, her tone short and guarded, only releasing the details she felt necessary.

 

Levi took her appearance in with more scrutiny. Her face appeared dirty, smudges of a darker shade then her skin smeared across one cheekbone, her hair was clumped from grease at the roots, the rest a bit disheveled as it was tucked behind her ears, her face itself looked worse for worn with a drooping tiredness. Levi noted the dirt under each fingernail as he laid his crafted blade in an extended open palm, her fingers hovering over the tool.

 

“If you break it, you will make me a new one,” he warned, feeling the warmth from her fingers.

 

She rested her palm atop of Levi’s, her eyes softening as she looked directly at him, and she let the touch linger for a few seconds. The acceptance of Levi’s warning did not register with the sternness he may have thought to evoke, but his ambiguous approval of her company along his unknown journey was enough to show the only gratitude she could induce at the moment.

 

She curled her fingers around the tool, slowly taking it from his hand.

 

“I won’t break it,” she promised.

 

They ran.

 

 

\---

 

Using the stars to guide the two, Levi led the pair in the direction of the frigid Northern territories. With only a slight idea of where they were located, Levi thought it wise to remain on one path, straight and direct, and Akane trudged along without complaint. The two spoke little during their first few days of the extensive journey, neither Levi wished to pry into the saddening ordeal Akane had dealt with before she presented herself to him in the forest, nor Akane dared ask why Levi was abandoning their clan. She couldn’t bring herself to request reason for an explanation, for she was deserting her brothers and sisters all the same.

 

Still, Akane couldn’t help but let her mind wander when her gaze would briefly sweep across the alabaster, guarded expression of her clansmen. She remembered the day he wandered within their encampment, he seemed to only be a bit older than she, barely reaching his seventh seasoned year. He looked like a frail, weak spirit as he caught the attention of many, a small stack of bones wrapped in furred garments, his eyes steel, clear pools against the darkened grays of the fur surrounding his face, the mane of his crow black hair nearly as contrasting to his snowy skin. With all the determination that small, weak body could muster, he marched into the Phaxne camp, he did not speak a word, nor did he appear hostile, he simply walked until he collapsed.

 

The healers were quick to work, bringing him into their tented quarters, lighting various herbs for purification, blessing ointments and rubbing them down the bridge of his small pointed nose, over his boney chest. Akane only saw what was granted to her until they closed the drawn back flaps, unopened again until the day he emerged on two feet. But it was many days until the healers themselves resurfaced from the enclosure, during that time water was brought in large clay pots, for drinking as well as bathing. Food was also delivered, dried meat, dense bread, potatoes and other prepared vegetables. The elders believed that if the stranger saw others his own age he may feel more comfortable, thus Akane was given the special privilege to deliver the necessary food items for one particular day.

 

She entered the tent with caution, a basket clutched to her side, her arm enveloped around the rim. Her eyes took seconds to adjust to the darker lighting, and when they did she saw the two clear eyes of the stranger staring back at her. He had a thick fur blanket draped across his body, the only visible skin was that of his chest, face, and arms. His inky black hair was splayed against the folded furs cradling his head, it appeared long, possibly reaching the middle of his neck if he were seated upright. Akane walked closer, slowly tucking her legs underneath her body as she sat, setting the basket down a few feet from the stranger. His eyes followed her movements, not leaving their hold on her face.

 

Not to be intimidated by the boy, she spoke up, “I trust you can feed yourself.”

 

She had no time to dwell on how uninviting her comment must have seemed, as the stranger did not offer her a response, nor a glimmer of hope that he understood at all.

 

“Do you know where you are?” she inquired further, the vibrations of sympathy beginning to flutter in her chest. Her gaze on the stranger was matched with his upon her, and again, she saw only a blank expression, not even his crystal eyes held any depth. She wondered if he spoke a different tongue, rare even within the times they found themselves in. But it was a possibility, she had heard talk around her clan that the stranger had not said one word since he arrived, looking at the elders and healers as if he were a newborn, full of uncertainty and a hesitant curiosity.

 

“What is your name?” she asked, feeling foolish that she was suddenly so desperate to know about this small, expressionless stranger.

 

“Do you know who you are?”

 

And for many months it appeared that he did not. When he was introduced to the complete Phaxne tribe, he did not speak, but that was no excuse for him to be labeled as a timid, scared boy. Quickly it became apparent that he was not afraid, nor threatened by anyone surrounding him, the same strange curiosity he had become known for was expressed for all to see. He stood before them, his cold stare running across the faces of all the unfamiliar members he had yet to meet, landing on Akane, who was looking at him just as intently. She was not sure by how quickly he had turned his attention away, but she believed he bowed, his head and his eyes, just the slightest in her direction. From there he was taken in by a family who had just lost a boy his age to a careless accident, the mother more than happy to care for another that so similarly reminded her of her own son.

 

Akane only saw Levi sparingly after that, time continuing on until many forgot that Levi had not always been part of their tribe, had not been born a Phaxne. But that comfortable forgetfulness took much time to achieve, glances and whispers in Levi’s direction followed him for many months as he was ushered about by his fostering mother. Levi learned much by quiet observation, what fruits were edible, what plants were for medicinal uses and which were for spiritual, how one plant could be for both. He learned to sew, how to hunt, both acts fairly easy for him, either from previous exposure or from the careful attention he possessed naturally, these acts commanding that skill. Phaxne members were very taken with the stranger, willing to teach him such acts for survival, but were utterly astounded that communication between themselves and the boy was obsolete. Levi learned from practice, patience, and unwavering attention, never offering words to the surrounding members. The Phaxne spoke to him in the popular tongue, but after weeks of his steady silence, many believed him to be a type of mute.

 

However, it was not until Levi was completely immersed in their unique culture that he finally began to speak, but he did so with a strange accent. His words came very slowly, the tenses and phrases coming out choppy and incorrect in the beginning. All soon realized that Levi had not spoken in months because he simply did not know the common language, the crushing barrier being the last to overcome for himself. When Akane became aware of this stark disadvantage the stranger harbored, it suddenly made sense why Levi only watched her in the healer’s tent, unable to answer her questions not due to an illness or injury, but because Levi had been part of the few remaining clans that spoke their own rare dialect.

 

It took the passing of two full seasoned years for Levi to be able to communicate with his new clan without assistance, his mother having done much of the teaching. One day while Levi was seated with her, watching his younger brother harmlessly challenge an elder at a combat duel, he asked what the word ‘Levi’ meant in the common tongue. She looked at him with a furrowed brow because she did not understand what his question meant.

 

“You have called me that since you took me in, I have never told you my given name,” he explained, as simply as he could.

 

He saw her face instantly relax and she shifted on the ground, leaves crunching underneath her plump body.

 

“Levi is quite an old name within the Phaxne, it is not used very much at all. But it means ‘to join’, given your situation, I thought it was rather fitting.”

 

At that, Levi smiled just barely.

 

“But—if you have a name you wish me to call you, the one you were given, I can call you that if you prefer,” she suggested, the drop in her tone showing her understanding for the delicate situation Levi carried with him. No one had asked him of his origins, not after he could communicate, his own mother never pressing the issue.

 

“No,” he began, his steely eyes watching as his brother was easily taken down by the elder, uproarious laughter surrounding their personal conversation, “I became a Phaxne when you named me, to ask you to call me any different is insulting to you, to everyone who is my family.”

 

Anaïs looked at her son, the way his eyes reflected the light so beautifully, eyes a shade of blue she had never seen before. She took his words to her heart, knowing that they spoke volumes for the unknown origins he never wished to disclose. Much of Levi’s life was a mystery unto her, but she never possessed enough courage to ask him where his true home was, the fact that he had not gone back was enough confirmation to prove that he did not wish to return, no one had ever come looking for him either. She feared that there was much she would never know about the boy that walked himself sick into their territory, the one who whimpered when he was deep in his sleep. She did not wish to bring about any painful memories for him, and only asked of his dreams when she believed they were too much for him to bear.

 

‘They are just memories of the past I wish to forget,’ he would always tell her, the darkened circles under his eyes proof that those visions haunted him more than he cared to admit. Levi was an enigma to his clan, but no more so than to his mother who intimately knew more about the stubborn boy, yet at times felt like she knew just as little as the others.

 

 

\---

 

 

When Levi was young he would look to the birds sailing through the sky and wonder what it felt like to fly. He never imagined himself to one day be flying within his dreams, aided by a contraption strapped to his hips that propelled him through the air, his own graceful flexibility maneuvering himself through buildings and trees at impossible angles. It was the most incredible sensation in the beginning, to trust one’s body so fully that fear was simply not a factor. There seemed to be a professionalism in the way he carried himself in this distant world, some inner working of his mind, where he simply knew how to handle his body in ways that was impossible within his clan. The visions he saw of this other world were so rich with color, so incredibly different from his everyday life that he wondered how he had ever created such a world for himself.

 

This world was his playground for sometime, yet he was always alone, although he saw faceless, voiceless others around him, he could not communicate with these drones as they went through motions but did not necessarily exist. The beings he did see, the monstrous giants with looming mouths and glazed eyes were the only creations that followed him, hunted him in this world. By some previous knowledge he was able to kill his attackers, slicing them with precision in the back of the neck until he nearly fell with their bodies to the ground, in the last seconds he would use his gear to aim for a building or a tree that would carry him away before impact. The dangers these titanic creatures possessed was not to be taken lightly, and became imminent as soon as he saw those surrounding him get plucked so easily from a building, from the ground, from a tree, from the air itself, and get maimed to the point of complete dismemberment. The sound of a snarling crunch through bones, the oozing of blood from their grimacing mouths, the stench of decaying flesh all became his most unforgiving memories, those sensations not shaking from his mind well into his awakening, following him like a reaper throughout his day.

 

There was questioning uncertainty as to why he would see such things at night, how he could even be transplanted back into that far away world if he thought about it hard enough during the day. He didn’t understand the reasoning behind it, what could it mean that he could see such horrid, mind-altering scenes without a purpose? He tried not to dwell much on it, writing the world away as a type of night terror or his own extravagant imagination. But as he grew older, as he heard the stories of _qual’a’tao_ he was quick to piece two and two together. He was blessed with a curse, and he laughed at the sheer fact that he found no comfort in the development at all, it felt as though his body was solely a vessel for the gods to torture as they pleased, he had no control over what he would see or learn, and that alone terrified him.

 

He wished that world away, with its fear, chaos, and bloodshed, he wanted no part in it. The glowing pride in which elders talked of _qual’a’tao_ fell to his deaf ears, for they did not know the reality of what it meant to be one, how truly horrid their visions were, enough to make him project bile from the overwhelming sensations come morning. He would not give the satisfaction to his clan as presenting himself as the mythical and tangible _qual’a’tao_ , he would never tell a soul of his secret. With all the hatred he felt for himself being chosen by some god, by the universe itself to be a legend come to life, he willed himself to wake the second he saw the familiar trees, the buildings, those heinous monsters. He believed that if he rejected that world, it would in turn reject him.

 

He realized that was not the case, however. As brave and diligent as his efforts were, they only caused tremendous endeavors for him. He would lose sleep, the black circles under his eyes becoming prominent, he would begin losing parts of his day-to-day memory, walking with his clan then suddenly seeing they had progressed a great deal, having no recollection of the countless steps he had taken to achieve the distance. They were annoyances, but ones he believed he could control. It was not until he was brought back to that world one early morning, taken from his duties of collecting berries for his clan on his own, that he was held with such a force he could not shatter. He was assaulted by these titans, killing one after another, his muscles aching from the punishing physicality of it, and when he finally broke free from such a gripping vision, he saw unfamiliar faces, a language spoken that he did not understand, and he collapsed to the ground from exhaustion, his vision black and finally, finally peaceful.

 

 

\---

 

It was a childish idea that by not returning to his clan he would somehow escape the reality of his situation, but one that seemed plausible to him in his new surroundings. He awoke very briefly following his exhaustive state, opening his eyes just the slightest as he heard a chanting, he smelled the sweet musk of burning herbs, and he saw elders with their eyes closed, hands extended up and out, as if pleading for his life. He remembered wishing to tell the elders to swallow their prayers, for he would be truly happy if he had somehow found a way to end his life in his wandering episode, the visions coming to an end as well. Instead he closed his eyes quickly, the smells and steady beat of a drum lulling him back to blackness.

 

He remembered food being brought to him, careful hands holding his head up to feed him, presenting a small bowl of water to his lips in alternation. The hands were comforting with their smoothness and warmth and he quickly concluded that he felt safe here, wherever he was. He would let himself be nurtured for as long as his caretakers saw fit, and if they shooed him away after, he would let them. But during those days he learned their names as they were repeated around him, he memorized the comforting touches of each of them, the way one hand was calloused and rough, how another was more warm than the rest, how one was sturdier, the other light as a feather.

 

Just when he began to feel bottomless safety around the elders, he was left alone, but not for too long. A small girl shuffled her way inside the tent, her hair as black as the rocks within a river, her skin fair like the clouds, both her eyes and lips seemed to shine with a pearling effect. She spoke to him with her small, smooth voice and all he could do was look at her in response. Her voice was sharp at first, then becoming slower, etched with worry. His eyes danced around her figure, the smallness of it reminding him of his own, he was delighted to see another of his age, for all he had seen for days were wrinkled faces and hands, graying salt-and-pepper hair. She was the first that presented herself to him, her name he later learned as she was called out of the tent, was Akane.

 

Levi would feel her gaze on him when he was presented to the clan, would feel that light presence on the back of his head as they both grew older. They talked very little although they both aided in hunting, Akane specializing in smaller game for her precision, Levi and other men chasing after larger prey with both their skill and strength. Levi would smile at Akane the times they both brought down large kills, it was a small, closed lip smirk, but Akane knew that the sentiment alone spoke volumes from Levi, as it was an action he did not spare for those outside his immediate family. Because of the small gestures of acceptance, Akane kept a worrying gaze on Levi as they both grew, herself knowing that he could protect himself just fine, but her eyes would wander to his figure, always checking, in case he needed help.

 

\---

 

Keeping to her promise, Akane handled the knife with controlled care, going as far as to clean it after every use, much to Levi’s approval. They worked as a team to ensure a meal each day of their travels, and whenever they came across a stream or river, Akane knew she had to busy herself with a task as Levi took the opportunity to clean himself with detailed care. As they moved North, they passed their evening hours by the flowing bodies of water, watching as it glided over rocks, coloring the moss an even brighter green hue. The pair was grateful for the water, as they could introduce fish into their diet of small game and wild fruits and weeds. When the pair were fed and exhausted of a days travel, they slept close together, but never touching more then the brushing of their hands as they both slept with them nestled in front of their faces. There was a comfort in sleeping close to a clans member, their bonds similar to family, an ease that relaxed the pair to a gentle sleep. Yet even with the personal distance both desired from their reserved personalities, Akane could still feel Levi shake within the night, both hearing and sensing the vibrations and rustling of his body on the ground, his breathe becoming ragged and choppy as he trembled. Akane would always pretend to be asleep when she would feel the heat from Levi’s body pull away from her, sitting up to rub his face into his hands with an annoyed grunt.

 

One of those times, however, she let him see her open eyes as she looked at him from the ground.

 

“I can’t help you can I?” she asked, one of her arms stretched out to linger where the impression of his body remained in the grass, the answer to her question known by both.

 

“Not with this,” he still told her, thankful she never pressed more than by offering a type of condolence.

 

“Is this why you left?” she whispered, knowing she never dared tread into more personal matters with her clansmen, but her curiosity dared her to conclude if he felt trusting enough to finally reveal more.

 

“You know I would never ask you the same,” he snapped, his voice having a warning bite to it.

 

“Because you don’t need to, Levi,” she snapped back, “You know my parents were killed, and there’s not more to it than that.”

 

“That doesn’t mean there would not be others to take care of you, you have always been a Phaxne.”

 

“You talk as if you are not one. You had a family as well, not one that you were born into, but one that chose you and loved you. Don’t act so self righteous in this quest when it was a choice, just as I chose to come with you.”

 

Levi thought of her words, how he had known the second he saw Akane that night that she had gone through a terrible ordeal, and her careful words confirmed that she had lost those most dear to her. Because of this, Levi could not turn her away on her plea to join him, for he knew far too well what it meant to lose loved ones in an instant, for he had lost his entire clan because of his foolishness to suppress his visions. And yet, he had done the very same once again, but this time, there was someone willing to help him, as she always did whenever he would let her.

 

He saw her fingers curl and uncurl gently within the grasses, almost as if they were beckoning him for just an ounce of his intimate, guarded trust, for all the quick words they had used against each other, she deserved that much for following him blindly.

 

“I think,” he began, knowing that the words he wanted to speak were so heavy on his tongue that they struggled to come out, “I think, I’m suppose to search for someone.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Someone like me. Someone who sees what I only do.”

 

She kept silent at Levi’s words, the meaning of them churning slowly in her mind as she began to decipher each one carefully. The sudden realization of just what Levi was saying, of what he had confessed in his own ambiguous nature shocked her to the core. It all made sense in an instant, but her sympathy and worry for Levi only swelled in her heart, feeling as though it would crush her bones from the sudden impact.

 

“ _Qual’a’tao_ ,” she let the words rest around them, let them settle until they seeped into the ground from their weight.

 

The hood Levi typically wore pulled over his crown was drawn back, his hair pulled behind his ears, giving Akane a direct view to his sharp profile. His eyes were trained forward and she noted the way his jaw locked, the small muscle within the ridge of his face flexed for just an instant. He nodded at her words.

 

“ _A’hoa satameti, grusita emshipe’k’e rtafaqui,”_ she breathed the divine welcome, never having thought the antique language would be pulled out of her for such an occasion, she put her pointer and middle finger together, the pad of her thumb coming across to touch the nail of the ring finger. The side of her pointer finger touched her hairline, traveling down the bridge of her nose, past her lips until it met her chin, the reverent gesture of respect for a _qual’a’tao_ complete.

 

_Fallen soul, I am blessed by your return._

 

True to character, Levi did not spare a glance at her appropriate, yet unappreciated declaration of acknowledgment. By her actions Levi knew she would no longer just see him as her clansmen, he was something else suddenly, celestial and untouchable to others. He did not wish for this divide between the two, he had never thought himself superior to others, and did not wish to be treated as so. And yet, he had told Akane of his most dreadful secret, one that he refused to admit fear to, not even to himself.

 

When the moment had dragged itself to a thin, unnerving string, Levi resumed his position in the grass facing Akane, looking into her dark eyes with panicked challenge. He held her gaze, wondering if more questions would follow, his ears perking at any sound that bloomed around them. But nothing came, only the careful movement of fingers tenderly being placed at top of Levi’s bunched hands.

 

When Akane finally heard the rhythmic breathing of Levi’s sleeping form beside her she wondered if the universe itself had a sense of humor. Of all those that could have been chosen in her clan, across the various territories, it had been Levi.

 

Powerful, fierce, quiet, brash, delicately created, Levi.

 

\---

 

After the days had turned into weeks, and the weeks into a month or two, it dawned on Levi that they had reached the Northern territories. Very slowly the pair began to feel the coldness prick their skin once again, it nipped at Akane’s cheeks leaving a permanent blush, Levi wore the same color, with the addition of his nose dipped a light red. They never noted when they began to see their breath as it exhaled in front of them, or when they saw a light dusting of snow on the ground once more. Seasons changed very slowly in the Northern territories, winter still holding a weak grip although the milder months of the year were approaching elsewhere. The pair moved forward, caution holding them upright and alert to any foreign sounds while they began to trek in unfamiliar lands.

 

They passed a number of smaller camps, the burlier men were quick to stop their tasks and watch the pair as they walked around the territorial lines. Levi offered them a nod of the head, that being enough to settle most of their minds and establish a passing peace, yet Levi noted a few lingering gazes fixed on Akane. He met them directly, his own hand coming to her neck and pulling her towards him in a seductive manner, when their backs were to the strangers he would pull her body even closer to his, their outline looking intimate from behind.

 

“Will you remember their faces?” he would ask her, their mock intimacy always being a forced display and nothing more to the hormonal, naïve eyes.

 

“I won’t forget them,” she would ensure, her own gaze becoming cold from the sexual aggression aimed towards her by strangers, but Levi would never let it advance past interested stares if he could help it. But Akane was a storm all her own, she didn’t need his help against seedy men, but played along with the act to ensure that the pair were left alone by others, yet if their displays of belonging failed, both knew the faces to expect.

 

Thankfully, they were not bothered by curious strangers for more than a greeting and overtly prolonged stares, they were lucky in the regard and trudged forward. Only a few days of travel ensured that they were in the interior of the Northern territories, the weather shifting to slightly warmer conditions as the grasses peaked from the snow laden ground, white peaks of mountains being seen in the distance. Bodies of water seemed to come alive around them, spring or early summer suddenly bursting life into the once barren and brutal land. The change of environment made the journey all the more easier, the pair walking farther on the soft, unobstructed ground. Levi challenged them by hiking up slopes, the view of the flat valley below being breathtaking to the pair. One incline in particular had been more taxing than the rest, the descent equally requiring the dwindling energy of the two, their feet having to remain parallel to the grade to ensure neither of them tumbled forward. When they reached the bottom they felt the muscles of their legs twitching from the stress of their controlled weight, both having been too absorbed in the their ministrations to realize they had wandered into a well hidden encampment.

 

 

The curve of the small valley was shielded by thick-trucked trees, a heavy cluster of them to the left of the final curve of the steep slope. Under the canopy of leaves were tents similar to Phaxne fashion and voices of scurrying children could be heard. Had the tribe seen the strangers descending down the slope was unknown to the pair, for there were no awaiting bodies to warrant off possible threat. Akane saw Levi begin to toe his way along the border of the encampment and she was quick to follow his steps, remaining close to his side, remembering just where she kept the crafted blade in her possession.

 

Levi kept his eyes forward, his directive being to reach a spot within the thicket, a dark spot within the green just barely out of reach. His eyes grew wide to accommodate the sudden difficultly he had on concentrating on the one point ahead, his vision became blurry, then he would squint. He would alternate between the two, feeling as if he was not progressing in the least to reach a place that was a gamble on their safety. He no longer heard Akane’s steps behind him, not the children, or the crunching of his own feet on the ground. He felt as if his body was being tipped backwards without his control, and abruptly, he saw nothing but darkness.

 

While he was swimming within a wave of obscurity he heard the soft notes of Akane’s voice, her words reduced to nothing but intricate sounds that were clouded within his ears, never seeming to break the surface, always muffled and subdued. But within the familiar pitches of his clanswoman’s voice he heard a deeper octave, its alien presence shaking him from his dazed state instantly.

 

He felt firm hands holding him down and he blinked his eyes furiously at the fuzzy surroundings. He felt the sturdiness of the ground below him and the recognizable presence of Akane he had become attuned to after much time together. It was her small hands upon him, holding him against his body that was forcing itself to sit upright.

  
  
“It’s best if you remain where you are,” he heard that deep voice address him.

 

He forced his crisp vision to return to him by further blinking away the messy shapes and lines, but it took its own time to return to sharpness. When it did he was looking up at deep blue eyes.

 

“I don’t take orders from strangers,” he snapped, his sudden handicap pooling irritability into his veins, temporarily forgotten was the fact that the pair was in unfamiliar territory, Levi’s comment possibly endangering his and Akane’s life in an instant.

 

But instead of a threat being shot back to him for his quick tongue, he heard the faintest sound of a rumble within the stranger’s chest, a small smile forming on his pink, full lips.

 

“Ngruský,” the stranger said.

 

Levi looked at him as if his words had meaning, and in his confusion and disillusionment as to how he had ended up in his position, at the mercy of this towering, blue-eyed man, they did not.

  

“Phaxne,” he heard Akane reply from above him.

 

“Welcome,” the man said, the sincerity of it dripping off his words like a sweet honey.

 

\---

 

 

Levi could not remember when he had fallen asleep, the exertions from the day paired with his dizzying spell had drained the last bit of energy that remained in him. When he felt a pounding in his head begin he knew he would be useless, the thumping would eventually encase every crevice of his comfort, his sensitivity to sounds spiking, his stomach feeling a nagging need to purge itself. A groan escaped his lips and he was carried by strange arms, unable to protest the contact from the pain. The last coherent image he had was being laid in a dark tent, Akane voicing that she would be only feet away, resting herself, if he needed anything.

 

He closed his eyes, a hand laid across his temple in hope of some relief. He was allotted a few moments of dark, soundless bliss, until his body felt searing. He felt the uncomfortable stretch of his legs being drawn apart, his knees resting on a soft surface, the material below him feeling equally as warm as his body. His hands tried to grip at something, anything, but he only felt skin below him, smooth, supple, warm skin. And there was a pressure, a delicious, punishingly intoxicating presence within him that he had never felt before. It was exploring inside of him, holding him in a grip he could not shake, he couldn’t even open his eyes as the pleasure built within him.

 

He snarled like some animal in heat, his arms reached out for purchase, and enveloped a neck, his small fingers tangling in the hair attached to the nameless individual. Levi realized just what dream he was having, one that he had not had in far too long, his worries having overpowered him enough to rob the frivolity and enjoyment of a simple wet dream for a young man. But this one did not feel as they typically did, where the pleasure was the most relevant aspect to him, how other details faded away as an imagined orgasm built. No, he was painfully aware of his labored breathing, how his hot pants stemmed from his open mouth, the slickness of his lips creating a sticky environment against the taunt skin of a neck. He felt how his posterior was jutted out into the air, the curve of his backside feeling so severe, the angel exposing his most intimate details. But he could not feel embarrassment as those thick fingers tunneled into him with skill, spreading and exploring him with channeled determination.

 

Levi let out a whine when he felt the pressure suddenly disappear, his eyes opened and he could see the curve of an ear, blond hair behind it, his own fingers buried in the strands. But the pressure was not far-gone, the pad of one finger circled the puckering of his hole, teasing the entrance, but not traveling further.

 

“Please,” he heard himself keen, his lips murmuring against the neck in a faint whisper.

 

“Rivaille,” the voice said, the sincerity of it not going unnoticed in his careful mind.

 

Levi circled his arms around the neck tighter, no longer feeling the presence of those fingers, and he scooted up the body he had been hovering over this entire time.

 

“Patience,” that deep voice told him, pulling away from Levi’s tight grip to press a kiss into his hair.

 

The fingers ghosted over him again, slipping inside without resistance, feeling like molten ecstasy.

 

Levi cried out, his thighs constricting into themselves and he felt his limbs shudder, his body seemingly falling until it was pressed against _him_ completely, grinding into him because it felt so good, _too fucking good_.

 

“I promised you,” Levi heard him laugh, “I told you I would make you feel good.”

 

“Yes,” Levi agreed blindly.

 

“Do you still trust me?” he asked, his fingers having slowed their pace for Levi to regain himself for a moment.

 

He pulled away from him, his arms loosening the grip until his fingers lay just below the nape of his neck. He looked into those blue eyes from before, the planes of his face familiar, the strong curve of his jaw and the fullness of those bruised, pink lips.

 

“Yes,” Levi agreed once again.

 

\---

 

 

 

Levi discovered almost immediately that his name was Erwin.

 

When he had come to from his dream he still felt a lingering sensation within his legs, a heavier weight pulled on his groin from a fading arousal, he paid no mind to it, and wasn’t allowed to dwell on his dream for more than a few seconds. He rustled a bit within his position, attempting to remember all that had happened in order to find himself within a stranger’s tent. He heard rustling that was not his own from a few feet away.

 

“Another bad dream?”

 

“Not exactly.”

 

“You were asleep for nearly an entire day.”

 

“And those big blonds didn’t manage to sneak in and kill us? Should I be thankful or worried?”

 

“They’re peaceful, Levi. They’re not like the others we have passed. We have no reason to not be thankful for their concern.”

 

For everything Akane was, she was painfully accurate in where to lay her trust. Levi still debated as to whether or not her trust in him was any consolation of her accuracies, but he was well aware that he would never let harm come to her if he could prevent it, even if it left him bloody and bruised in the process, he would look after her. Perhaps, her trust alone was such a quiet, honest compliment Levi had never truly fathomed the extent of it.

 

“Have you spoken to them?”

 

She had. While Levi remained on the ground, his eyes being covered by the crook of his elbow, Akane briefed him on the territory they currently resided in, as well as the tribe themselves. As one of their more prominent members, Erwin, had offered in a subtle greeting upon their meeting, they were in Ngruský territory, one of the largest tribes of the Northern lands. Just past the large incline the traveling pair had descended, past the trees of the Ngruský encampment was the sea, known for its unique coal black sand. Clans of the Northern most territory were known physically by their blond hair and striking blue eyes, but for trading purposes they were known for their smoked fish and tools made of various aquatic life, from large spears crafted of large sea mammals to the tiniest needles used for sewing and body modifications. Akane further explained that she felt a type of safety from the clan, for she had known of few Phaxne women having married and relocated themselves to this tribe, although that was years ago when she was just a small child. But for all the traveling the two had done, Akane was hopeful to meet fellow clanswomen, thankful that their association could be used as an advantage to silence any fears within Levi and within the tribe they were currently at the mercy of.

 

“They wondered why were traveling so far,” Akane nearly whispered.

 

“Who exactly is wondering,” Levi asked, finally straining his neck to look at Akane, her dark eyes already trained on him.

 

“Erwin. It seemed he was just curious – I-I didn’t say anything really, just that we were searching for someone. He didn’t ask again after that.”

 

Levi nodded, his head returning to a more comfortable position. The vagueness of Akane’s answer offered the two an area of cushion before others began to ask more persistently about their reason for such extensive travel. Levi knew that he had to create a more impressive response for them, they would be asked this question again, they needed a story to stick to. Worries began to swell in Levi’s chest as to how the pair was going to go about the current situation they found themselves in. Would they leave abruptly in the night? Would they be asked to stay? Were they already seen as suspicious by the others?

 

“Are you finally going to begin asking?” her smooth, collected voice once again brought him out of his troubling thoughts.

 

“We’ve traveled all this way,” she continued, “and you haven’t even begun to ask about others. You have had opportunities, Levi, you can’t remain afraid after all our sacrifices.”

 

Levi thought of those blue eyes from his dream and exhaled a grumbled sigh. Akane had reason, Levi couldn’t ignore her concern, especially not after having brought her so far from any familiar comforts. They had come into contact with other tribes along their journey, but they were short occurrences, anything deeper than a greeting was rare. Still, each time they had encountered them, Levi never dared ask. He was afraid, there was no doubt in his mind, he didn’t have the slightest idea of how to navigate the position he had found himself in. He was going off of stories, never meant to be true, but they offered the only guidance he knew. He was searching for someone, the other part of his soul, the one who came from the same star, something of that sort. Levi scoffed at the idea of a type of star-crossed love that these stories romanticized, never having believed the notion that another individual to completed him. Yet, here he was, having abandoned his clan for the folktales of his youth.

 

“They want us to stay,” she offered.

 

“Then we’ll stay.”

 

_For now._

 

\---

 

It was a day or two longer before Levi was given full permission to leave the tent, the Ngruský healer adamant that he rest, drink fluids and eat, before any physical labor or moving about. By the third day Levi had exhausted the last of his patience, stressing that he knew his body better than anyone, his dizzy spell was over and he was in the best health once again. His persistence paid off, although Akane scolded him about his brash attitude later, but he couldn’t find it in himself to dwell on it for too long as the pair were to help the hunters catch much needed meat for the large tribe.

 

Hunting with strangers, with a tribe that was not their own, was an interesting experience for the pair. They would trek behind others, completely unfamiliar to their surroundings, would take orders from those that were respected, yet that respect was acknowledged, but not fully given by the Phaxnes. Levi used his bow, having it ready as he walked behind Erwin’s towering frame, Akane remained behind Levi, her treasured blade being gripped loosely in her hand. Levi looked to his right and left after every few steps, his sharp eyes searching for a moving figure, a brown standing out from the vibrant green of the forest. He was mindful of not colliding with Erwin as the group moved closely, quietly together across the forest floor.

 

Due to his position, Levi did not have many places for his gaze to linger, during the seconds where the area had already been surveyed, he found his eyes lingering to the back of Erwin’s head, to his back, to one of the large hands hanging loosely at his side. When Erwin would tilt his head to either side it granted Levi a short glimpse of his profile, his smooth pointed nose, his pronounced cheekbones, his strong, sharply cut jaw line. His hair was cropped shorter than many of the other’s in his tribe, but it still managed to cover his ears, the longer pieces resting in the middle of his nape. Levi watched as the sun would illuminate his hair, becoming a brilliant golden tone, sometimes even appearing white from the blazing rays.

 

“There,” Erwin said, coming to a complete stop, the group following suit.

 

“To the left,” he continued, his voice low and quiet, “Levi?”

 

 _Rivaille_. He remembered how that name sounded rolling off Erwin’s tongue.

 

“Levi?” he repeated.

 

_Do you still trust me?_

 

Before Erwin could call his name again, before Levi could muster enough courage to answer, he pointed his bow to the deer a few yards away, quickly releasing his arrow. The deer fell immediately, much to Levi’s relief, and he closed his eyes, letting out the rigid breath he did not realize he had been holding in until now.

 

“Well done,” he heard Erwin praise, feeling his eyes on him, but he did not dare look up.

 

“You may retrieve your bow. Are you familiar with preparing the animal?”

 

Levi nodded.

 

“Then Akane and yourself may take it back to the camp, save a portion for yourselves.”

 

“Thank you, Erwin, we will be sure to,” he heard Akane respond behind him, pulling the sleeve of his furred clothing to drag him in the direction of the animal.

 

Once the pair had distanced themselves from the hunting party, Akane’s sharp tone rang out, it alone commanding Levi to look at her.

 

“What has gotten into you? Are you suddenly too proud to acknowledge one of the most important tribal members? The one who offered to bring us today, who is giving us the first meat of the first kill?”

 

Levi clicked his tongue in annoyance, looking away from her as he pulled this arrow out of the dead animal. Akane gave him a cold look, unfazed by Levi’s own brooding expression, and went to work on tying the animals front hooves with braided cordage.

 

Levi glanced back at the hunting party, watching Erwin lead them further into the forest.

 

 _Patience_ , he heard the voice coo in his mind.

 

\---

 

Days after the first initial hunt, after the Phaxne pair had become situated within living quarters, had met all the Ngruský members, had been officially presented as peaceful, welcomed guests, a heat wave hit the Northern most territory. Winter had clung on as long as possible, but with the way the sun was scorching, the familiar stifling heat of summer was given an early arrival. The furred clothing the Phaxne members wore for a good measure of the year was no longer appropriate, not even during the nipped hours of the night. Quickly realizing the dilemma at hand, Erwin commissioned clothing to be made for the pair, the absolute order given before Levi could begin to argue, the power of Erwin’s words making certain individuals shuffle their feet in an instant, their worth among his tribe still unclear to Levi.

 

It took the better part of an entire day, Levi working in the shaded comfort of his shared residential tent, threading beads through manipulated fibers, helping in anyway he could to ensure his clothing, and that of Akane’s, would be complete. In the end the threaded beads were taken from him, leaving him without a task to complete, waiting simply for his garments. A head poked through around twilight, leaving Levi nearly paralyzed with fear as he gave an aged Ngruský elder a complete view of his privates. The woman all but laughed, laying the completed garment a few feet from the stark naked boy.

 

With the little light that remained, Levi studied the garment made in Ngruský fashion. The material was of a mammal, having previously been dried, softened, and dyed a dark blackened color. There were two embroidered perpendicular designs on the material, their position appearing to align on Levi’s legs once it would be worn. There was beaded work on the side as well, a simple trickling design with turquoise colored beads, all the colors standing out brilliantly against the deep black. Levi wasted no more time in slipping the garment on, it beginning just below his navel, both legs having their own slot, the bottom reaching the tops of his knees. The waist fit him perfectly, but the rest was left with breathable room. There was a fasten, a circular, flat stone that had been attached to his garment at the side, Levi looped the leather hook over the stone to secure his garment.

 

Finally Levi stepped out of the tent, having been cooped up in the same location since morning. He could see Akane already outside, standing near the tent of a few Ngruský women, one on either side of her as they fiddled with something close to her neck. Levi watched as she talked with them, their words unknown to his distant ears, the women said something to make Akane smile, a warm, lingering smile. Only a few seconds later they shuffled backwards and Levi could see the extent of their craftsmanship.

 

She wore a longer garment, sleeveless, the neckline that was scooped minutely both in the front and back. The beads Levi had threaded meticulously had been secured, strands mimicking the curved neckline, looking as though Akane was dripping in necklaces. Her garment remained open at the legs, reaching down nearly to her knees, giving her breathable room as well although she was more covered than he. Her garment had not been dyed a black like his, but rather remained the soft, sandy brown of the animal. She looked beautiful in a way Levi had never noticed, without the hood covering her hair he could see her long locks had grown during their journey, without the furred clothing covering her body he saw how pale her skin was. They did not belong to each other, neither of them feeling any sort of attraction other than that of familiar company, but Levi’s chest swelled with pride at the woman Akane was becoming. He wondered, sadly, what would become of her if they were to succeeded in this journey that had no course, no end in sight. How he wished her parents could see her, to know she was safe and thriving.

 

“She seems to favor those two,” he heard that low voice behind him, shocking him to another standstill.

 

“I suppose they recognize their own kind. They are Phaxne originally, having come here when I was much younger,” he continued, never using Levi’s silence as a queue for dismissal.

 

“Not young enough,” Levi mumbled before he could stop himself.

 

He heard a short, amused laugh from beside him, followed by a long exhale.

 

“I was wondering when you would finally talk. I just wasn’t prepared for it to be a snide remark,” Levi felt his gaze again, the weight of it feeling heavier than usual.

 

“Maybe,” he said hopeful, “You’ll even look at me one of these days.”

 

 _Patience_.

 

“But we can work up to that.”

 

Just as Levi was about the give the towering blond a cold stare at his intrusion, he heard the ground crunching underneath his moving weight. Before Levi could even think of another remark, snarky or not, he saw the prominent muscles of Erwin’s exposed back moving in sync with the rest of him. His back was a canvas, blemish free and broad, tapering at his waist where Levi saw him wearing his own garments, similar in fashion to his own, but lavishly decorated with beads and intricate embroidery, the attention to detail symbolizing his power and privilege among his people. Levi noted quickly that others were not dressed as lavishly as Erwin. Was he an esteemed leader? A spiritual healer like no other?

 

Levi could have called out to him, he realized as he watched Erwin rest his hand on one of the Phaxne-turned-Ngruský women, an affectionate gesture for her hard work. He could have continued with the sarcastic banter, asked Erwin his age, asked him about the Phaxne women, said anything to continue hearing that velvet voice. He could have looked at him, just once, to prove he was not like some stubborn, shy child. But he did none of these. He simply watched Erwin talk to Akane, watched the way the darkening sky made Erwin’s hair a muted shade of brown, how the blue light hugged the ripples and dips of his chest and back.

 

Levi remembered his hands from the dream, how they knew just where to touch him to have him arching and keening. Levi felt a spark bloom inside his center and willed himself to look away, his rosy cheeks would not go unnoticed if someone happened to look at his heated face.

 

\---

 

Weeks later, when Erwin had coerced more words out of Levi, when the days grew longer and the sun set well into the evening hours, Erwin had managed to persuade Levi into visiting the beach with him alone. Erwin had watched as Levi would look down at the point break from the cliff above, often wandering from the hunting party when the outcome was good and finished. Erwin found himself looking at Levi quite often, not just out of curiosity or concern for the stranger, but for reasons he could not share. Once, when a day where the sun bathed skin in warm light, where there was little to do for preparations of the coming days, where food was plentiful, Erwin lead the Phaxne down to the black sanded beach. The two zigzagged down the descent, Erwin offering advice of where to step, and Levi following him with light footsteps.

 

Levi has been walking barefoot on the soft ground of the camp for sometime, yet his toes wiggled in the cushioning of the sand, he had never felt anything like it before. It was only until Erwin did not hear the pattering behind him that he turned around, Levi had stopped completely, looking down at his feet as they were blanketed with fine particles of black. Erwin found himself staring again, he saw the rocky cliffs behind Levi, how they were sprinkled with green grass, how Levi’s pale skin glowed against the expanse of sand, how his hair was just as inky black, swaying very softly against his shoulders. Levi looked up at Erwin, his eyes looking like the palest blue beads he had ever seen, they were alive and shining up at him. Erwin felt the greatest urge to sweep his knuckles against the fair complexion of Levi’s cheek, to bring his fingers into his hair, tucking it behind his ears to see his face without distraction. He wondered what his hair would look like if it were to be tied up high like the other men, if the natural rouging of his cheeks were to spread to his slender neck.

 

As if sensing Erwin’s most precious thoughts of him, Levi looked away and walked towards the water. Erwin watched as he went, seating himself in the sand, resting his forearms on his bended knees. As he looked at Levi, water lapping at his shins, he realized that all the thoughts he had of the younger man stemmed from only the fantasies he had concocted in his mind for weeks. He truly knew nothing of the Phaxne, having only heard his voice a small number of times, never being sought out by him, but rather his companion. Akane came to him for a number of things, most having to do with the concern for providing for themselves, not wanting to burden or over extend the compassion they had been shown. That being said, they had not showed signs of departure, not that he wished them gone, but he had only heard from Akane once that the pair was looking for an individual, but for who or why was not a question Erwin dared ask at the time. But now he seriously wondered, who was this person, so precious to the two of them they had traveled to near exhaustion for.

 

“It’s strange,” he heard the meekness of Levi’s voice, not aware when his figure had faded from Erwin’s field of vision, “I had heard stories of the ocean, but I never knew where it was, or what it would feel like.”

 

Erwin felt the small current of wind as Levi shifted all his weight to the sand, sitting in a similar position next to him.

 

“There are stories that we came from the sea,” Erwin said, nostalgically so as he recalled the folktales of his youth, “That is why many Ngruský have blue eyes, they all still have ocean water in them.”

 

At that Erwin saw the twitch of a smile coming from the corner of Levi’s pink lips.

 

“That would have been a comforting story to hear when I was young,” he said truthfully, his forehead furrowing.

 

“Do the Phaxne not have such stories?” Erwin implored.

 

“They have something of the sort, but I grew out of such tales quite some time ago. Phaxne stories never resonated with me.”

 

“Because you are not Phaxne,” Erwin stated, Levi’s alienation of tribal allegiance slowly coming together in his mind.

 

“Crafty even for your old age,” Levi’s words teased, but Erwin could not sense any amusement in his tone.

 

“Do you always fall back on snide remarks when you feel uncomfortable?”

 

Levi glared something awful at Erwin then looked angrily at the water in front of them. He knew Erwin wasn’t attempting to sum up Levi’s own brash attitude, but the question still surprised him. Levi had begun curling into himself when Erwin had begun his questions, each one putting him more on edge for their curiosity. Levi discovered, early on in their encounters, that Erwin was unabashedly curious and this did nothing to ease the anxiety that tingled in Levi as he was asked more personal questions. Erwin was digging at the surface, they both knew it, but Levi wasn’t secure enough within himself as to whether he wanted to reveal more.

 

 _Rivaille_.

_Do you still trust me?_

 

“I don’t remember much of when I was a child, but I came from people older than the Phaxne, older than Ngruský. We spoke a tongue I have not heard anywhere else, and one I cannot speak any longer. I should feel sadness, I suppose, but I don’t remember enough to feel much of anything.”

 

Erwin watched Levi out of the corner of his eye, as he looked up at the sky, how his breathing slowed, how his words came out one at a time, each one seeming almost too painful to voice. Yet, he said them, words that carried more weight than even Erwin could fully comprehend. They were a simple string of words, but they were beautiful for the fact that they were openly shared with Erwin. He was grateful for the small glimpse he was given into the foreign young man. Erwin thought it would be appropriate to offer a type of confession to Levi, a simple anecdote of his own insecurity or when he himself felt lost, but nothing would offer the same selflessness that those words evoked. Anything else would be insulting, those words were meant to stand alone between them, Levi had offered them without hoping for anything in return.

 

Therefore, he remained silent, thinking of what it must have been like to forget one’s tribe. He watched the waves as they crashed into each other, retreating back to only repeat the violent action. He watched the water until the skies pinked, and Levi watched Erwin until his thoughts became peaceful once again, until he didn’t just remember his fingers, but rather the warmth of the arms that held him.

           

\---

 

 

More weeks passed before there was another day of leisure in the camp, by then the assault of summer was as relentless as ever. The sun no longer felt like it enveloped the skin in a hug, but rather a sizzling similar to hunted, cooking meat. Thankfully, the canopy of the trees kept out much of the blaring rays and Ngruský inhabitants could move around as they pleased with mild discomfort. Elders sat outside, talking among themselves about trivial matters to fill the hours of the day. Parents also sat outside, working on a project with meticulous hands in order to keep themselves busy as they gave quick glances to the children running around, screaming in joy as the newest Ngruský members followed them, puppies that resembled the fiercer, untamed wolves that often stalked their camp from having picked up the scent of cooked meat.

 

Levi indulged the children that treaded too close to him, roaring at them with looming arms, shaking his fingers with intent, trying to appear like some beast that could be thought up in their imaginative minds. The children seemed to appreciate the effort, screaming in joy once again as they ran in the opposing direction. Nökkvi lifted his large head in the direction of the children, then glanced back at Levi. Levi simply shrugged at the large dog and goes back to carefully carving the skin off a fruit for his own consumption.

 

Levi often hears Erwin’s powerful footsteps before he sees the man, and today is no exception, especially with Nökkvi's attentive head cocked in the direction of his owner. The dog gets to his feet and circles around Erwin, licking his palm when it is extended to him. He sniffs him briefly before returning to his curled position next to Levi.

 

“He seems to like you more than myself now,” Erwin says, his hands on his hips with mock annoyance. Levi doesn’t look up, still peeling the skin.

 

“That makes two of us,” he mumbles, knowing well that Erwin will hear the remark.

 

Instead of having a comment to fire back, their bickering a normalized occurrence to all, Erwin surprises Levi by squatting in front of him, his blue eyes gliding over his fingers in a type of daze. Levi sits upright, rearing himself back against the tree trunk, completely bewildered by Erwin’s closeness. Levi reminds himself that this has happened between the two before, Erwin suddenly finding an opportunity to bring the two closer, intentional or not, it always sets Levi’s skin aflame.

 

“Is that not Akane’s prized knife?” Erwin’s voice is low, Levi can practically feel the weight of his eyes moving from his hands up to his eyes, agonizingly slow. Levi imagines how easily it would be for him to open his legs to envelope Erwin into him, but he pulls his bent knees closer to his chest.

 

“I had made it for myself originally, but situations changed and I wanted her to protect herself if need be,” he explains, throwing the last curled strand of skin to the side, slowly parting the fruit in two, then cutting a small slice for Nökkvi, the dog lapping the fruit out of Levi’s open palm.

 

“You only rely on your bow?”

 

“It has not failed me yet.” He takes a bite of the fruit, the coldness of it feels incredible in the muggy heat. Levi looks up at Erwin and sees that he is still eyeing the blade in his hand, he offers the handle to him to inspect on his own. Erwin gingerly takes it from him, his fingertips brushing against Levi’s sticky fingers. The blond man brings the knife close to his eyes, those blue orbs roving across all the curves, and Levi takes the opportunity to watch Erwin in a different fascination entirely. His skin has become a tan shade, only making those blue eyes look more stunning against his skin, the defined muscles of his arms, back, and stomach all begging to be touched. Erwin is glossed by a thin veil of sweat, but even that wouldn’t deter Levi from kissing and licking his throat if he only could. His hair has been pushed to one side, remaining there from the grease accumulated in it from the heat and constant attention. He is gorgeous, and so, _so close_ it is enough to drive Levi mad.

 

“Will you indulge me, Levi?” his voice nearly purrs, and it is almost enough to make Levi choke on the fruit he was attempting to chew.

 

“Depends,” he rasps out.

 

“Teach me to make a blade like this,” he tells him, but it feels more like a command than a request.

 

“I would think the high and mighty Erwin Smith can make something as simple as a bone blade,” Levi scoffs, the wrinkling of an amused smile on his mouth.

 

“This is a Phaxne style, is it not? It is not simple by any means, you took great care to make this, the outcome is exquisite,” he states firmly.

 

“Flattery? I’m touched, Erwin.”

 

Erwin just smiles at him, looking truly content even with the steady heat, the screaming children close by, the buzzing of pestering bugs all around. That smile makes the blood run cold in Levi, he wants to kiss that beautiful smile off of his face, kiss him dizzy until he has a smile just as bright on his own lips.

 

“Tell me, do have any more pressing matters to attend to today?”

 

Levi could object, he could turn down Erwin’s request just as he had many times before for an array of frivolous things, he could ignore him all together, as he has been known to do. But instead, from either Erwin’s flattery or the way the beams of sun hit his golden hair, Levi finds himself standing and mumbling in agreement as Nökkvi follows him into the thickness of the woods, Erwin’s footsteps trailing behind.

 

Over the course of the next few hours Levi narrates all his actions and choices, he quickly grew fed up with Erwin’s questions for every small detail. He finds solid wood, telling Erwin that its sturdiness is important for keeping the blade in place, and for the tool to last for years, but Erwin knows all of this already. The two go back to camp quickly to retrieve a large leg bone from a previous hunt, then stalk back to the area they had set up for the project. Erwin goes to work on carving a handle out of what was once a thick branch and Levi does the same by beginning to shape the bone into what will be a blade in due time.

 

The two remain quiet for the duration of the time, both having forgotten that creating such a tool takes many hours, hours that are gained after weeks of work. Only when the sun had exerted the last of its rays do the two return to camp, the comfort between their silence not being broken. There is an agreement between the two that they will keep working on their separate part on their own time, and they do.

 

When they are blessed with another leisurely day Levi goes in search of Erwin across the camp, asking no one of his location to not raise suspicions of his own growing urgency to see him. Levi looks down at Nökkvi, “Erwin,” he says simply, and the dog begins to trot into a direction towards the lush forest. Levi finds Erwin hunched over against a tree trunk, shaping the last bit of his handle with a look of pure determination on his handsome face. Erwin doesn’t bat an eyelash as Levi sits next to him, back against the trunk as well. They continue with their work until Levi has finally finished with the blade. He takes the handle from Erwin and the blond retreats back to the camp, telling Levi he will be back.

 

Levi creates an opening for the blade in the handle, with strength and a softened piece of leather he holds the sharp blade until it is nestled tightly within the wood, the knife complete. Erwin joins him once again some time later, bearing a snack of berries he holds in a woven basket against his side. Levi notes that he holds a long, wrapped object in one hand, but does not say anything as he offers the knife to Erwin when he is seated once more.

 

“I have indulged you for the last time,” Levi says, popping the black berries into his mouth with a disinterested stare.

 

“The only time, if I remember correctly,” Erwin teases, taking the knife and inspecting it by flipping it over in his hands countless times. Levi watches him, his stare holding more than he dares give away, and he feels the weight of Erwin’s companion dog nestle itself in his lap. Levi pops a few more berries into his mouth, noting that the juices from them are beginning to dye the tips of his fingers in a purple tone.

 

“Here,” he hears Erwin say and Levi sees that he is extending the handle to him, the confusion on his own face prompting Erwin to continue, “take it.”

 

“I asked you to teach me how to make it, I never said I was going to keep it,” he says, not allowing Levi to voice the complaints that are sure to be bubbling in his throat.

 

“I didn’t spend all this time on a knife I would keep! If I needed one so badly I would have made one for myself ages ago!” even Nökkvi perks his head up at Levi’s exclamations.

 

“I had a feeling you would act this way, so consider this a trade,” Erwin’s smile is plastered on his face and he turns his torso to retrieve the wrapped object behind him, Levi pretends he ignores how the muscles of his stomach contract at the movement. He turns back and scoots himself closer to Levi, gently moving the basket of berries to the side. He sets the object on the ground and unfolds the furred wrappings, unveiling an obsidian colored blade, the point precise, and its handle made of carefully sculpted bone. The knife is stunning, and even with the attention to detail, it is still practical for its purpose. It strikes as familiar to Levi, but he cannot place where he has seen the tool before.

 

“I can’t accept this,” Levi says, his voice becoming strained and shy even to his ears.

 

“I made this for myself years ago,” Erwin begins, taking the knife into his large, calloused hands, “I favor it when I hunt because it is sharp and handles well. Strangely enough, it reminds me of you,” Erwin notes that Levi’s eyes seem to grow at the declaration, but he continues on even with the thumping of his heart, “I will care for the knife you are giving me if you promise to care for this one.”

 

Against the objections screaming at Levi, he takes the knife from Erwin’s hands, grasping it in his own thinner, paler fingers. He looks at it, the feeling of it foreign in his palm, and then looks up at Erwin again, finding that his eyes had not left his face.

 

“Why have you shown such compassion towards me? Towards Akane?” He knows it is an inappropriate and insulting question, but it has been one he has wanted to ask the blond for the months they have been within the camp.

 

“Has it been wrong for me to?” he asks earnestly, but there is a sadness to his words that does not escape Levi’s ears. He is asking him honestly, not dancing around the topic, but it angers Levi suddenly, so much so that he lunges at Erwin, pinning him against the tree with the blade inches away from his throat. Erwin lets him.

 

“Such open kindness will get you killed one day,” Levi seethes, the puffs from his words brushing against Erwin’s left cheek. Erwin can feel the clamminess of Levi’s small hand resting on his chest, he can feel the weight of his body on top of him, his knees resting on either side of him. Levi’s slick chest is nearly pressed against his and he’s waiting desperately for Erwin to react to him.

 

After letting the moment carry, Erwin very slowly, very carefully brings one hand to hold the thinness of Levi’s wrist, lowering the blade from his throat. He hears the hitch in Levi’s breathing at the gentle action, but Erwin does not let go of his feather light grip. Instead, he brings it to his chest, noting how Levi is pointing the blade away from them, he never wished to hurt Erwin.

 

“One day,” he says quietly, “but not today.”

 

Levi has lowered his head by now, his forehead just inches away from resting against the comfort of Erwin’s shoulder, the familiarity of it almost taunting him. He feels Erwin’s heated breath against his hair, his nose brushing into the strands.

 

“I’m not afraid of you, Levi,” he tells him as sweetly as possible, no malice in his tone, but rather an underlying desperation for Levi to succumb to the distance he has adamantly set against all those he encounters.

 

“Not even like this?”

 

Levi feels a hand cradle his head, guiding it to rest on Erwin’s shoulder, and he does. The closeness has him near shaking, his skin burning up, his heart beating erratically in his chest, and he grips on Erwin a little harder. The hand does not leave his head and he can still feel Erwin’s nose nuzzling his hair affectionately, it’s enough to make him melt. He feels a new sensation, lips, graze his scalp and for a second of hope he believes Erwin has left a chaste kiss there.

 

“Not even like this,” he agrees.

 

\---

 

It does not seem strange to Levi when he realizes he has gone months without a vision or dream. He had had quite a few during the journey to the northern territories, but he noted that stress often spawned them with more frequency than normal. The fact that he has felt relaxed in the Ngruský camp may have had a similar effect, causing a great lapse in their return. But Levi has not minded the void of that horrid world, for sometime he has nearly forgotten what he truly is, those pockets of time feeling like true bliss.

 

But that very night, when only hours ago Erwin cradled Levi close to him, Levi slips into a deep sleep. Before he can properly open his eyes, he feels lips trailing up his spine, his bones feel immensely heavy and he’s suddenly exhausted. A familiar calloused hand trails Levi’s sides, beginning at his thighs until it reaches his ribs. Levi is panting, his heart mellowing from a quivering buzz. A kiss is placed in his hair once again and he notes that welcomed scent of Erwin that surrounds him.

 

Levi believes this to be one of _those_ dreams again.

 

“You should get dressed, Rivaille,” he murmurs into his hair before Levi feels the bed shift from the loss of weight.

 

“I can’t even move,” he states, as if it wasn’t obvious that a powerful orgasm had left him a pile of bones.

 

He hears Erwin’s soft chuckle and it makes him smile, his eyes slipping shut to rest and collect himself. He hears the rustling of fabrics being collected from the wooden floor beneath him. The bed dips again and he sees Erwin’s back clothed with a crisp, white shirt. His hair is similar from the dream before, cropped short at the nape, longer pieces at the crown. From the way Erwin’s arms are extended out Levi expects him to be buttoning up, then Erwin stands, tucking the shirt into his pants. Levi can only marvel at him, his tall figure, the broad expanse of his back.

 

He sees Erwin sit again, crouching down to pick something off the floor, and he remains with his back bent. Slowly, he begins to sit up again, fussing over something on his legs. He stands and sees an array of straps criss-crossing over his back and waist. He turns to Levi and buckles the last bit on his chest.

 

The pulse that had steadied in Levi begins to rapidly pick up, he has seen these straps before. Erwin reaches for a brown jacket, shrugging it on, and Levi watches in horror. The insignia is all Levi needs to see in order to piece it all together. It is the same clothing he wears when in that world and Erwin is sauntering around in that uniform as if it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

 

Levi looks up at Erwin with pleading eyes. This can’t be real. And Erwin looks down at him with the same compassion he has shown countless times, he kneels down by the edge of the bed and kisses Levi slowly. The kiss is deep and loving and it is almost enough for Levi to forget how his stomach is retching inside of itself. Levi grips the collar of Erwin’s jacket, bunches it in his small fingers as Erwin tries to break away.

 

“No,” Levi croaks out, his throat having closed up, dry, yet his eyes filling with tears.

 

“What’s wrong?” Erwin whispers, brushing Levi’s hair from his forehead, trying to sooth his partner from the sudden outburst of emotion.

 

“It’s you,” Levi shutters, “It’s you.”

 

Erwin sees the water pool from his eyes, his tears muddling their beautiful, clear color. Levi begins shaking, still clutching his collar, and Erwin can’t escape how his wretched sobs cut into him just as deeply. He presses a kiss to Levi’s forehead, knowing not what to say to console him, simply hoping that Levi will wake up soon.

 

\---

 

Reiner had cut the skin from the flesh accordingly, his hands sticky and stained pink from the blood of the small animal. He pulled the furred skin toward the back legs, giving it one final tug before it came off the rodent completely. He set the skin aside, in a pile that had collected between Erwin and himself, and threw the body of the animal into a separate pile, on a type of rug, the furred side on the ground, the softened, leather top a clean surface. As Reiner was to reach for his next rodent to prepare he felt the heavy aura on him, his golden eyes shifted to find Levi staring at the pair, as he had been doing for some time, but Reiner knew that cold, calculated gaze wasn’t for him.

 

“He looks at you like he’s going to kill you,” he murmurs, reaching for the next animal.

 

Erwin shrugs at the comment, “He looks at everyone like that.”

 

“No,” Reiner disagrees with a shake of the head, “just you.”

 

He can hear the exasperation in Erwin’s sigh as he pulls the skin from the animal with more force than is needed. He throws both the skin and body in their appropriate places but does continue on with his work, rather, he sets the knife down on the ground next to his bare feet. Reiner notes that it is a curious knife, similar in style to the one Akane is always using, but he says nothing of the lack of coincidence. Many had noted that somehow, from persistence or good nature, Erwin had managed to become a type of friend to Levi, their closeness only growing since the Phaxnes had become more than simple guests within their territory. To a stranger’s eye Erwin and Levi could look as nothing more than an arguing, snide pair, but Reiner would see how Levi’s eyes would linger on Erwin when he believed no one to be looking.

 

“I don’t believe he’s very pleased with how certain events have unfolded for him.” At that Reiner stalls his work, holding the small rodent within his hands and looks at Erwin with his full attention. “He found who he had been looking for.”

 

Reiner furrows his brow, awestruck, “How is that possible? He’s been here the entire time.”

 

Erwin doesn’t look at him, his eyes scanning the ground, and he sadly smiles, so briefly Reiner wasn’t sure he had seen correctly.

 

“I saw him in that world,” Erwin begins, not sure as to how to even initiate the fragile conversation, a subject that he has been eating away at him for days, “the first night they arrived. I don’t believe Levi knew what was truly happening, he must have thought it was only a dream. But a few nights ago, he realized it was me. He kept repeating it, over and over, ‘It’s you’ he kept saying. He didn’t want to believe it, and by how he reacted, I’m sure I’m not what he expected at all.”

 

“None of us know what to expect,” Reiner tells him, all too familiar with the horror that is seen in that world, but his fascination for what Erwin has revealed to him does not go unattended.

 

“What was it like? Knowing it was him?” he asks, almost shy, he does not know whether the question it too much too soon.

 

Erwin laughs, an honest one without a trace of sadness, “Strange at first. It appeared that I was more coherent than he for sometime. It was very surprising, seeing someone you had just met in that world, but quickly, that fades away. A type of comfort replaces everything else, you feel safe, and happy, and warm. I don’t know how else to describe it, it’s wonderful. It truly is.”

 

“But he doesn’t feel the same . . . ?” Reiner asks, almost too afraid to once again.

 

“He was afraid, of only that I am certain.” Erwin can still hear how those sobs wrecked Levi’s small form, he can still feel the insistent pull of his collar by the pale, thin fingers.

 

Seeing an end to the conversation, Erwin reaches for the knife Levi made him again. He doesn’t look up to see if Levi is still boring into him with his iridescent, clear eyes. He takes another rodent from the pile and begins cutting around the foot.

 

“Has he spoken to you at all?”

 

“No, and I don’t know if he will anytime soon.”

 

\---

 

Levi keeps a distance from Erwin for the following days, the surprise of realizing Erwin is just like him, a _qual’a’tao_ , the very person he had been searching for but honestly never, _ever_ , thought he would find, is enough to make him forget to even breathe.

 

The night that his reality truly crashes over him, he wakes with a start, the tears from the dream are etched down his cheeks, he coughs as he shoots up and out of the tent, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. It is dark all around the territory, no one seemingly awake but himself. He walks as fast as he can into the thicket of the forest, hoping that all the leaves will muffle the broken sounds coming from his throat. He scrubs a hand against his eyes, his fingers pushing the hair from his face. He hears the crunching of the forest floor and turns around, startled.

 

Akane is there, the comfort of her face, just the familiarity of her presence is enough for Levi to throw himself onto her, crumbling into her embrace as she brings them down to a sitting position on the ground. Akane is bewildered at Levi’s state, he has never displayed so much raw emotion to her, she doubts anyone has seen him in such an episode before. His head lies right against her chest, and she holds him with enough pressure to show that she has him, that he is safe. She rocks him back and forth in a slow motion, cooing him in hope that his breathing will steady enough for him to talk.

 

“It’s him,” he croaks, “It’s Erwin, it’s him Akane--i- _it’s him_.” It’s all Levi can say, but it’s enough. He knows she will understand, and she does immediately.

 

“But why are you crying?” she whispers into his hair, still rocking him like a child.

 

Levi hiccups at her words. Why _is_ he crying? He can’t remember having cried when he awoke to Phaxne strangers buzzing around him, everything unfamiliar and frightening. Why now? Why over Erwin? He knew something of this sort would happen the second he decided to go on a terribly planned out journey, he must have known, in the very pit of his stomach, that he would find whoever was out there. Of course he knew, but doubting himself, doubting the stories and his reality was always so much easier. But there was Erwin, kissing him and touching him like he was the most precious thing in the world and dammit if Levi didn’t like being touched like that, didn’t _fucking love_ seeing that look in Erwin’s eyes.

 

He could have that again, he thought for a fraction of a second, that oozing, warm, addicting comfort that he had only experienced with Erwin in that world for only a short allotted time. That could be his reality, isn’t that what all the legends said anyway? For all the suffering _qual’a’tao_ endured in their lives from being torn in two worlds, at least, at the very least they would find someone who shared that misery, who understood them like no one else ever would. And he did, he had found that person, it was Erwin. _Erwin._ So why was he crying?

 

He continued to ask himself that question for the next few days. Akane did not mention his outburst again, but only remained close to Levi as they went about their daily activities. Levi still hunting with the other members of the party, he still took orders from Erwin, although he did not say anything to him, only sparing a few curt nods to show that he understood what was expected of him. But when the attention of others was away from him, when all others were too focused on a task, Levi’s eyes would rove over Erwin, without shame, the aching in his chest almost insufferable. Erwin’s arms had never embraced him in this world, not until Levi put a knife against his throat, but he watched as they bent and flexed, wishing he could find it in himself to demand they be around him.

 

He kept those thoughts to himself. All his fears, passions, and everything in between were safely tucked away in his mind. He chewed over the possibility that if he just had asked Erwin, asked any of the Ngruský like Akane had told him to, the blow wouldn’t have been so severe. His own fear had caused him this strange suffering, and his own fear to simply speak to Erwin again wasn’t boding well for his situation. Erwin never pestered him, not like before, only speaking to him when necessary. The times Levi found those blue eyes looking at him, it was as if they didn’t know anything extraordinary. But Erwin knew, he had known since that first night, and had kept silent all those months for Levi’s sake.

 

The more Levi thought of Erwin, during those nights where he refused sleep to come, the more he groaned at how terrible he was behaving. Yet, he couldn’t stop himself from staring, from looking at anywhere other than Erwin when they were close, from refusing to mutter a word in his presence. And Erwin simply let him, his compassion still emanating off him in the silence, in the distance. Levi wondered if it was a ploy, to smother him with so much goodness that he would come at Erwin, unable to hold back anymore.

 

But it did not take Erwin’s well mannered heart to bring the two back together, only a vision too powerful to ignore.

 

On a night when Levi could not fight off sleep anymore, he slipped back into that world, finding himself in a room with white sheets and wooden floors and walls. There is only one other person in that room, and they are seated in a bed, the sleeve of one arm rolled all the way to the bicep, white wrappings surrounding the stump that hangs there. All Levi can do is stand there like a fool, staring, his mouth slightly agape. His eyes flicker to Erwin, his calm demeanor giving nothing away.

 

“How?” Levi manages to whisper as he sits himself at the foot of the bed, his eyes not able to leave off the only portion that remains of Erwin’s arm.

 

“A titan got a hold of me, I’m lucky it didn’t swallow me whole,” he tries to joke, but Levi only turns livid at the statement.

 

“You’re lucky you didn’t die! What am I suppose to do—“

 

_What am I suppose to do without you?_

“You have never needed anyone to compliment you, Rivaille. You are more powerful and capable than anyone I have ever met,” Erwin says, sinking back into the comfort of his pillow.

 

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you beside me.”

 

Erwin extends his complete hand out to Levi, his fingers turned up and open. “I’m still here. Is that not enough?”

 

It should be, but it isn’t.

 

Levi wills himself awake and all the emotions he had carefully tucked away come pouring out of him, shooting into his veins like adrenalin, and he’s walking out of the tent, walking to the farthest corner of the camp, walking past the fire that is still burning outside of his tent. The flaps have been kept open, letting the cool air inside, and Levi walks inside his tent for the first time. Erwin looks up at him from his position on the floor, on his side, one arm tucked under his head, petting Nökkvi between his ears.

 

Levi sees that all of Erwin is in tact. There is no stump, no white wrappings surrounding any part him. He is only skin and blue eyes and blond hair and bathing in a warm orange glow that makes him look like a vision from the very depth of Levi’s fantasies. That comfort that only Erwin can produce is beginning to make him dizzy, he feels it in his head, in his chest, settling deep in his bones. It’s maddening and sensitive and burning Levi from the inside out.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes before he collapses on top of Erwin.

 

Erwin lies still as Levi looks down at him, searching his eyes for anything that resembles a hint of protest. Levi’s black hair hangs in his face and at the closeness that they’re sharing Erwin can see how those long, full lashes brush against his cheeks every time Levi blinks. Levi brings their faces closer and Erwin feels the light pressure of a kiss on his cheek. Levi pulls back to watch Erwin’s reaction once again, and Erwin brings both hands to rake Levi’s hair away from his face, holding his head in a careful grip. He brings Levi’s head down to his level and melds their mouths together.

 

The initial contact brings a gasp out of Levi. Erwin’s lips are chapped from the heat, but his own aren’t much different. He lets his hand snake up Erwin’s chest, feeling the ripples of his muscles and the grazes of hair that covers them. Levi realizes he’s touching him, finally touching him, and Erwin is kissing him, licking at his lips, sucking one between his own, and all Levi can do is groan at the wonderful suction Erwin is producing.

 

Erwin moves away from him only a fraction of an inch, their lips just barely touching, “Wrap your legs around me,” he says low and raspy. Levi does.

 

Erwin rolls them over, placing Levi on his back, letting go of the cradling position of his hands around his head. Levi’s hands fall close to his ears, his palms turned up, and from Erwin’s position over him he can see how Levi’s muscles work in his stomach each time he takes a breath. Levi’s eyes have become heavily lidded, his breaths audible, and he’s looking up at Erwin with a type of intoxicating submission. His legs are still wrapped around Erwin’s waist, lifting his body off the ground, his back slightly crooked. Erwin’s large hand trails down his chest, and he notes how Levi’s barely bronzed skin contrasts against his tanner own. His hands continues to move down and he sees Levi close his eyes, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

 

Erwin grips Levi’s hips with both hands, raising Levi off the ground even more, and he brings his mouth down to his lower stomach. He places a kiss on the soft skin, licking a small stripe, and he hears another gasp from Levi. All Levi can feel is heat and wetness and he closes his eyes even tighter, Erwin continues to kiss and lick sections of his sensitive skin and Levi’s head rolls from side to side from the treatment. Erwin dips his tongue into his navel and Levi bucks his hips at the sensation, both strange and almost too personal. Levi’s hands find Erwin’s hair and he runs his fingers through the shorter, blond locks, savoring their soft, cool touch.

 

Eventually Erwin releases the taut skin of Levi’s stomach, seeing the wet areas of where his mouth sucked from the light of the fire outside. From only his tame attention Erwin can note that Levi looks wrecked, his lips swollen and slick from the constant attention of his teeth and tongue, he’s panting, and his hips are shuttering just slightly, searching for a friction to relieve the burning between his legs. With his hands still in Erwin’s hair, Levi brings him up for another punishingly slow kiss. Their lips move against each other’s, responding to the needs of the other, and it is unhurried, warm, full of comfort and something deeper.

 

Erwin pulls away from Levi, kissing his cheek, the side of his throat, and buries his face into the crook of his neck. Levi wraps his arms around Erwin, tightening the grip in his legs, pulling the two impossibly closer.

 

_This is enough._

 

\---

 

It surprises Levi when he realizes one morning, weeks later from his night with Erwin, that nearly half a year has passed since his and Akane’s arrival in the Northern territory. It creeps up on him very slowly, when he awakens from sleeping atop Nökkvi, the dog a heater itself, he drags himself outside the tent only for the chill of the current temperature to illicit a shiver to wrack his body. Hours later when the work begins Levi all but forgets about the coming winter, but not of the time that has passed.

 

Since going to Erwin’s tent that night Levi cannot say that too much has changed within both of their lives, the progression from strangers, to friends, to some type of lovers has been deliberately slow. Levi would seek Erwin in his tent when he would want to learn more about his life, what he has seen in the other world compared to his own visions, why Erwin’s status was kept a secret from him and Akane for all those months, why Erwin never bothered to tell Levi himself. Levi had many, many questions and frustrations, but he only allowed some to fruition in moderation, the pace he set for himself to learn about Erwin would allow him to accept their lives together more open and readily. Erwin never asked him why he would have so many questions one night and none the next, always patient with Levi, always compassionate as ever.

 

Of course there were nights where Levi had a multitude of questions for the blond, but preferred to get to know Erwin in other areas as well. They kissed like young lovers at first, for hours, until their jaws ached from the activity, and even then there would be times where Erwin simply couldn’t stand it, he had to continue to taste Levi, his fingertips, his neck, his sensitive stomach. And Levi would let him, the sounds he would make because of Erwin’s hot mouth were all the indication the two needed to solidify how much Levi loved being touched by Erwin, although he would never admit it out loud.

 

Not until a particular night where Erwin would take him with that molten, wet mouth. Levi practically bucked his entire body off the ground at the first impact of that sensation for no one had ever done such a lewd, incredible thing to him before. Erwin licked a thick stripe at the underside of Levi’s cock, holding its weight in his hand loosely. Levi mewled at the attention and Erwin couldn't help but smile. He gave Levi’s cock a few tight strokes, watching as a few beads of precome leaked out of his pink slit, and he laps at them greedily.

 

“ _Erwin,”_ Levi whispered, his head lolled to the side, eyes closed, and a hand over his mouth to stop any embarrassingly loud noises.

 

“What do you want me to do, Levi?” Erwin’s voice dropped deep, his own arousal for Levi growing the more he watched him writhe.

 

“Touch me, -- I -- _fuuuck Erwin_ ,” he nearly growled, and he feels a delicious heat surround him immediately.

 

Erwin takes his time taking Levi apart for the first time, he holds him down with one hand alone at first. He sucks him thoroughly and wet, the saliva from his own mouth coating his lips until they glisten, the rest trailing down Levi’s balls, down deeper until it slides against his twitching hole. Each time Erwin takes his mouth off he does it with a loud pop, gasping air back into his lungs, continuing to jack Levi off with his free hand. Soon Erwin can’t hold Levi down, forgetting the strength in his smaller body, and somehow Levi finds his hands in Erwin’s hair, his cock seemingly pumping itself in and out of Erwin’s giving mouth. Levi comes with a near shout, ribbons of his fluid filling Erwin’s throat, and Erwin continues to suck him leisurely until Levi’s legs stop trembling from the stimulation.

 

Levi returns the favor to Erwin a few nights later, but it is sloppy, full of teeth and choking, and a few tears. By the end Levi sits in Erwin’s lap, stroking his slick cock, his open mouth only inches away from Erwin’s own as they pant together. Erwin has both hands gripping Levi’s hips tightly and he rocks into Levi’s tight hold. Levi encourages him however he can, sucking his neck, whispering little things into his ear, swallowing Erwin’s moans when he can’t hold them back any longer. When Erwin comes he circles one arm around Levi, the other holding onto his shoulder, his back straightens and he makes deep, guttural noises that Levi can only ache to hear again.

 

On the night that Levi tells Erwin that he will be staying with him indefinitely, the surprise of the matter not being Levi’s intentions, but that he voiced them with such an obvious tone, because why _wouldn’t_ he stay with Erwin, the two meld together completely. Erwin prepares him fully, slickening his fingers with an extracted oil until Levi is begging him again. Erwin enters him, mesmerized by how Levi’s cheeks bounce from every thrust of his hips, and Levi stretches his back out, clawing the ground for some sort of anchor that isn’t that maddening sensation of being stuffed full. Levi bites his arm when Erwin hits his prostate and from there Erwin does not waver, rocking into Levi until all he can do is whimper from the concentrated pleasure.

 

“More,” Levi still says, “Erwin please, I can take it, _please—“_

And Erwin brings them even closer, leaning over Levi’s body, his sweat coated chest gliding against Levi’s back, and Levi groans at the small sounds he can hear coming out of Erwin’s mouth, pressed hot against his ear. Erwin doesn’t stop his rhythm, grinding into Levi even harder per his command, and he brings one hand to begin to stroke Levi’s flushed, hard cock.

 

“ _God, Erwin,”_ he whines, his voice already fucked out.

 

“Next time,” Erwin begins, his voice rough and broken from his relentless pounding, “I want to see your face when you come.” At that Levi cries, and Erwin continues, “I want to see you bouncing on my cock, I bet you look just as pretty as you do when you have it in your mouth,” Levi shutters, his breath caught in his throat.

 

With both Erwin’s cock and his hand twisting against Levi’s curved member, he can only give a short warning before he feels that all encompassing blaze overtake him.

 

“Coming, I’m—“

 

Levi’s back molds into Erwin’s chest, one hand traveling back until he grabs at Erwin’s hair. Levi’s hole becomes impossibly tight, but Erwin continues on for a bit longer, the sounds Levi is offering him from the overstimulation guiding him until he can’t keep his eyes open any longer from the delicious feeling. He pulls himself out and watches as come smears Levi’s pale, beautiful back.

 

After they have calmed themselves from the haze Levi offers him a tired smile. The Phaxne rests his head on Erwin’s chest and Erwin strokes his hair, the roots still damp from their excursions. They focus on their breathing for sometime, feeling content within the silence.

 

“Reiner will be leaving soon,” Erwin says after a short while, wondering if Levi is already asleep.

 

“Hmm,” Levi hums.

 

“He is following your example it seems, he’s going to visit our sister tribe to the east, the Raiuský. We know of another _qual’a’tao_ there, maybe he can offer Reiner guidance.”

 

“Hmm,” Levi hums again, glad that Reiner is setting on his own path, the knowledge that there are others like Levi no longer causing him fear.

 

“And you?” Levi asks, his voice quiet.

 

“My place is here, with you.”

 

And that is more than enough for Levi.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Akane, in Japanese, is associated with a dark, brilliant red. While I consciously didn't make Mikasa a character for Levi's journey, she is very much in spirit with Akane.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Armin and Eren.

Fingers wove through his hair very carefully, separating strands, manipulating them one way over the other. It was soothing and he closed his eyes as those delicate fingers continued to work through his long hair. The outcome was always a variation of braids, she seemed to favor that style for him, and after sometime it became a kind of trademark of his appearance. He was well known, across many territories, for a number of attributes, but there was a simple way his head moved, those braids adorning it, that made him appear as some kind of angel. Many were convinced he was, he knew two worlds, had an unprecedented fluidity inside him, he had a quick mind and boundless knowledge. Even among _qual’a’tao_ , he was something else entirely.

 

L'vinoye coiled the thin, leather strip around the end of the braid, securing it before tying it off, tucking the knot into the several wraps for aesthetic pleasure. It was a simple braid for today, only half his hair was styled, the rest was loose, blond framing his face and spilling over his shoulders.

 

“Finished,” she announced, and he turned his head to the side to catch a glimpse of her face.

 

“Thank you,” he always said, as if their morning routine was more of a chore than a pleasure for them both.

 

“You can stop thanking me every day, Armin, it’s annoying,” she watched as he stood, his dyed leg coverings wrinkling around his knees and groin. He reached for a type of shawl, one gifted to him by merchants the Raiuský had traded with recently, it was a brilliant red, making his features stand out all the more. He wrapped the material over his bare chest and back, one of the ends he flipped over his shoulder, pulling his hair from under the veil of red. She remembered when he kept his hair short, cropped just below his ears, how the hairstyle and big, expressive eyes always made him appear younger than he was. But he was older now, hair grown, limbs elongated elegantly, face still doe-eyed, but more sharper and calculating.

 

“Won’t you be cold?” L'vinoye asked, her gaze stern, but Armin knew there was care in her words.

 

He smiled, “Weather like this won’t be here for too much longer, I want to make the most of it.”

 

To that she could not protest, for even with her worries for the young man, L'vinoye could not regulate him if he did not wish it. She stood, looking to his face, and moved the fine hairs that had fallen into his eyes with the tips of her fingers.

 

“Don’t forget we have the Ngruský visitor.”

 

“Reiner,” he confirmed, there was no reason for Armin to forget one of his most revered friends. He had been nearly bouncing in his soles all morning from excitement to see him again after quite sometime apart.

 

“Would you like to join us?” he asked just as he was about to exit, although he knew the answer, he still asked in hopes that the stubborn blond would change her mind in joining his more personal affairs.

 

“No, I have to help with the last of the harvest,” she declined, but offered him one of her small, closed mouthed smiles. Armin nodded once, and left his tent to walk to where Reiner was staying.

 

\---

 

The first time Reiner came across Armin, he believed the blond to be one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen. He was young, perhaps in his ninth or tenth seasoned year, accompanying his father on one of the trading expeditions to their sister tribe. A few other men, as well as women, were a part of these expeditions, bringing forth their best crafts and tools, and of course the smoked fish the Ngruský were known for. It was a few days walk, still along the coast, yet lower in altitude making for slightly warmer conditions. The journey was a bit taxing on Reiner, for he had never gone on such an extensive trek before, only having gone on few of the simpler hunting expeditions with other members at the most. When they had finally arrived, instead of learning to barter and to be loveably condescending about his crafted goods, Reiner searched for the nearest tree to slump against. He watched the scene unfold in front of him, and he thought that observing would have to be just fine or now. As he felt his limbs begin to relax he saw a figure walking towards him, he could make out a small bowl being held with delicate hands, everything else was a mirage of blond hair and blue eyes.

 

The figure knelt to the side of him, offering the bowl of water. Reiner took it after a few seconds, bringing the bowl to his lips, tipping it too suddenly, half the liquid splashed down his chest and into his lap. Reiner looked to the blond, watched how those blue eyes grew large and how the impression in his cheeks were from his teeth biting the insides. The stranger wanted to laugh, but was holding it back for the sake of Reiner’s dignity.

 

Reiner, being too tired to fathom an excuse for his actions, or to simply run away from the embarrassment, laughed, lowering the bowl into his wet lap.

 

“I’m Reiner,” he hoped the greeting would create a first impression like no other. The blond seemed to appreciate the effort and let out a laugh from the small, pebble nose, a pale pink blush frosting those round cheeks.

 

“I’m Armin,” and the voice was deeper than Reiner would think it to be. He looked at the Raiuský more carefully, believing the individual to be a boy like himself, although he was dressed in what Reiner had noticed tribal girls to be wearing. Armin had small hands, a slender neck with thin arms to match, soft, pale skin, and the faintest dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Armin looked nearly ethereal in the shade that encased them, deep blue eyes standing out against his darker eyelashes, and blond hair making his entire face glow.

 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Reiner nearly whispered, and the more he looked at Armin, the more he agreed with his own statement.

 

“You too,” the blond agreed.

 

And that was how it began. Reiner was only with the sister tribe for a few days, but within that short time he became nearly inseparable from Armin. It didn’t take more than a few hours to note that Armin was treasured by the other members, similar to how parents would treat an only child, but the way Armin was acknowledged surpassed even that. Members would smile whenever in his presence, greeting him often, asking if he was hungry, thirsty, cold, asking about any discomfort at all. Armin would always politely turn down their offerings as they were only for his sake, it appeared not that he didn’t want to accept such kind worries, but he didn’t want to take away from the more pressing duties the others had.

 

Reiner felt as though he was Armin’s shadow, following him as he walked all through the camp, a silent figure during all of Armin’s interactions. It wasn’t until Armin would grip Reiner by his wrist and motion to the thicket that Reiner would feel himself relax. For a few hours during the days Reiner was in the unfamiliar territory Armin would bring him to his favorite spot, a small indentation in the otherwise flat expanse of grasses, two trees separated by a small distance, their branches leaning toward each other, the result was always a great deal of shade. Between the two trees was where Armin spent his time when he could escape long enough to not be sought out. He brought Reiner here because he felt most at peace, and here was where the two could talk openly without watchful eyes and ears.

 

They didn’t talk about anything of much importance, both fascinated to know what it was like in the differing territories. Although they were sister tribes, there were differences, albeit minor ones. There was a greater amount of diversity within the Raiuský because their territory was easier to access, not as out of the way as the sister tribe, therefore they had more trading encounters, and thus members of other tribes had married into the Northern clan over the years, an array of features uncommon to see in other parts. Reiner liked the variety that was presented within the tribe, foods of different types, people of different origins, how it all came together to become richer, more vibrant then the seemingly stoic, peaceful life he had known growing up. But of all the differences the Raiuský had, Armin was the most interesting. On the final day before Reiner and the others were set to depart, Armin stole him away to linger in the forest once more. This day Armin was wearing the leg coverings similar to Reiner’s, although his reached down to his ankles, and he wore a type of beaded necklace, extending down just a small distance from his navel, rows of curved beads traveling up to just below his collarbones. His hair was braided close to his scalp, but only on one side, the rest hung loosely.

 

Reiner leaned back against the grasses, watching Armin pick small, white flowers from the ground. The beads moved across Armin’s skin each time he extended for another flower and Reiner could see, from the openings between strands, that Armin was positively flat, no hint of development on his chest at all.

 

“Armin, why does everyone love you so much?” the question had been lingering on his tongue all those days, and if he didn’t ask Armin before he left he knew he would regret it, not knowing if he would return to this territory anytime soon.

 

Armin smiled, Reiner could note from his profile, and he picked another flower, turning to Reiner to place it between his ear. He looked down at him, resting his weight on one extended arm close to Reiner’s head.

 

“I wished you were who I dreamed of,” was all he said, sadly, even through his small smile.

 

Reiner looked at Armin quizzically, unsure of how the statement had anything to do with his question, but he edged Armin forward by staying silent.

 

“But I still don’t see anyone,” he trailed off, as if he were speaking to himself, “it is still only me.”

 

“I dream about monsters, about flying, trees bigger than the ones here, but I am always afraid. Everyone tells me I am brave for seeing so much, but I have no other choice,” Reiner noted how the pitch in Armin’s voice softened at the end, and Armin brought his knees to his chest, clutching them with both arms. Reiner continued to remain silent, although he had even more questions that were churning in his mind, but he knew that Armin’s need for someone to listen was much greater, perhaps no one truly had before.

 

Yet, Armin said nothing else about the matter. Reiner waited and heard nothing but the wind and sounds of children from somewhere in the distance.

 

“You’re just like me then,” Reiner concluded, Armin’s simplistic explanation of the other world enough to gauge his memory of all the visions and dreams he had already seen in the short time he had been alive.

 

“Not entirely,” Armin disagreed and Reiner wondered if he was alluding to the mystery that had been on his mind for the last few days, too polite to ask Armin directly, knowing where curiosity crossed over to disrespect.

 

“There was another like myself many, many years ago,” Armin began, looking ahead, his chin resting on one knee, and his voice just above a gentle whisper, “Hange. There is no simple way to explain Hange, but at the same time, Hange was more than anyone could comprehend. Hange was smart, curious, with a personality no one could contain, full of energy and spirit. They expressed themselves neither as male nor female, Hange was superior to those binding roles. They believe me to be similar to Hange, I am not so sure myself.” Reiner would sometimes be beside himself at how eloquently Armin spoke, even for their age Armin carried himself with a type of grace and composure Reiner had never seen in another so young.

 

“Is it possible they made a mistake?” Reiner dared ask, the regretful tone in Armin’s voice enough to press on, to find out more for he had never met someone of Armin’s caliber, a _qual’a’tao_ was rare in it of itself, but Armin was truly a gift from the gods.

 

Armin shook his head, “Hange was created how they are most commonly, from what I have been told.”

 

Armin looked down at Reiner, seeing his puzzled expression, the cock in his brow a clear sign that he was trying to understand the complexity of all that Armin was trying to reveal to him. Armin knew that the title that had been bestowed upon him by the elders and spiritual folk of his tribe was a type of explanation for the specific form of expression he possessed where the majority did not. It was an easy role to fall into for Armin, a category that clarified why he felt pulled into two directions where many only followed one path. However, explaining all that he was, all the idioms that followed his union of two souls, was suddenly daunting. He could see the determination in Reiner’s golden eyes that he wanted to understand, he was good natured and patient, always wanting to help. But for all the descriptions Armin had practiced in his head before this very moment, they all came up empty, in a second he mustered all the courage he had and laid down beside Reiner quickly, taking one of the boy’s hands and bringing it between his legs, holding it there with his slender fingers above it. Reiner eyes shot to Armin’s own, a blush inking his cheeks quickly, his pulse going a mile a minute. Reiner‘s hand felt heavy and imposing between Armin’s legs, but he felt nothing beyond that, no prominent curve of any type.

 

“Are you…,” Reiner couldn’t finish his question out of embarrassment, he suddenly wondered if he had been wrong about Armin all along, perhaps he was the female angel he believed him to be upon first glance.

 

Armin shook his head, his own blush beginning to creep onto his rounded cheeks.

 

“Then you’re . . .”

 

Armin nodded. “I think so.”

 

Reiner gently brought his hand away from Armin’s light grip, resting it on his own stomach instead. Armin copied the movement and looked up at the canopy, trying to calm his flushed body, and he heard Reiner voice his next question.

 

“How can you be sure?”

 

“I’m not,” Armin answered truthfully, exhaling heavily after he said it. Reiner saw as his face fell, the careful composure that he had been containing was starting to chip away, his uncertainty and frustration began to be pulled forward bit by bit, troubling his delicate features.

 

“It made sense in the beginning,” Reiner continued to listen, “it still does. But there’s times I don’t understand why I can’t feel the way I use to, before I understood about the visions, about myself and it made sense, it all did. B-but sometimes, _sometimes,_ nothing makes sense, I wonder if I’m the only one that feels so much, that it’s just—too much, all the time.”

 

Reiner didn’t know what to say to soothe Armin’s worries, he saw the visions himself, but he couldn’t fathom the rest the blond boy had to endure. There was no advice or kind words to offer, although they desperately wanted to come out, to tell him it would be okay, to assure him he would find some sort of balance within his mind. But he wouldn’t promise Armin anything he couldn’t grant him. Instead he moved a steady hand and gently willed their fingers to weave together, resting them in the grass between their bodies.

 

“I’ll come back,” Reiner told him.

 

It took six seasoned years, but he did.

\---

  

Every year after Reiner had initially met Armin he had tried to return to the sister tribe for a brief visit. Yet each passing year he was unable to for one reason or another, he was needed within his own territory, and he would not be permitted to go on the journey alone. It did not take a type of yearly anniversary for Reiner to think of Armin, wonder what he was doing in that moment, if he had grown, how he had changed, if he could understand his role better, Reiner thought of him every day without question.

 

After the third year Reiner had given up hope in seeing Armin once again, the time of their seperation itself was short on a grand scale, but with every passing day Reiner would think it to seem another tick in a type of cruel eternity. He had wanted to help Armin then, still wanted to now, but he was only a boy, the hormones within him wanted to make him a man, but there still wasn’t enough of him to make any sort of difference in Armin’s life at all. However, Armin had made a change in his, it began as a small ember, slowly growing stronger, building its heat within him. Perhaps it was inspiration, maybe courage, Reiner didn’t know, but it made him tell the others of what Armin had known him to be, a _qual’a’tao_ , the second among the Ngruský.

 

He was fortunate to say the least, there was another that could help Reiner through his visions and dreams, not so much to interpret them, but to sympathize a type of understanding for the reality they found themselves in. Erwin became Reiner’s solace when he tried to disconnect himself from that other world, not simply trying to forget all that he had seen, but failing to acknowledge it all together. Erwin did not know how, but somehow Reiner would completely forget who he was, existing as only a Ngruský, and nothing else. Erwin would sometimes be awoken within the night, shaken by the growing boy because it would all dawn on him again, he would remember it all and it would be devastating, horrifying, and all consuming on his delicate, frightened psyche. The more Reiner retreated in his mind the more of a hole he dug for himself when he would remember, Erwin waited for those moments, they happened in great numbers for the next three years.

 

Erwin neither told him it was fair nor dismissed his need for consciously forgetting the visions, he had admitted once that if he could, he would do the same. Erwin reminded Reiner much of Armin, both had a certain confidence within themselves that Reiner strived to achieve, they both accepted the positions they found themselves in. When Reiner finally realized how much he was suppressing within himself, when he accepted that these additional parts were not bad, when had his final episode of remembrance and all of it hit him harder then ever before, he began to grow. He saw the seasons change around him, he saw how other clan members had grown, his own family’s companion dog died, and he realized time continued to move on as it always would, he decided it was best to move with it, to change, to grow.

 

When an announcement finally came that there would be a short expedition to their sister tribe, Reiner had somehow all but forgot of that promise he had made years ago. He had not forgotten Armin, he could never forget the memories of him, but rather had forgotten much of what they had spoken about during their days together. He knew he had to see him again, there was suddenly an itching in his chest, like the conversations he would have with Erwin, how they would be cut short from time to time and he would count down the hours before they could meet again. Preparations were made, Reiner fished relentlessly and aided in the smoking for their biggest trade good, securing himself a spot within the group that would make the expedition. Within a few weeks he found himself on the familiar southern trail.

 

When they arrived Reiner was not sure how he would seek Armin out again, the camp looked even grander in scale from his memories, he did not have exhaustion as an excuse the second time around and followed his father, and Erwin, as they walked to the furthermost end of the settlement. Reiner stole glances this way and that as he followed the group, hope fluttering in the pit of his stomach that he would see the familiar face soon. Before they made it to the tents of the tribal leaders, Reiner turned his head to the left and standing there, talking to a girl with hair an even lighter shade of blond than his, was Armin. Reiner was suddenly panicked to know he was only feet away from the him, seeing that everything had grown, his hair, his legs, his arms, even his face had developed and become defined with age. He was beautiful before, purity surrounding him from his goodness and kindred heart, but now he possessed a magnificence that could only be described as deep seeded attraction in Reiner’s mind.

  

Reiner had stopped abruptly, members behind him groaning and playfully calling out for him to stop daydreaming, but the group moved forward without him. The small commotion they caused prompting Armin to look up, golden eyes meeting blue.

 

Reiner wasn’t certain who had moved first, his legs feeling like rooted trees, Armin looking like he was suddenly void of air. But they embraced each other, for all Armin grew he still felt small encased in Reiner’s arms, Reiner lowered his head, his nose breathing into the sweetness of Armin’s hair.

  

“I’m sorry,” it was Armin who finally spoke, his face tucked into Reiner’s bare chest.

 

“Why are you apologizing?”

 

“You said you were going to come back, but I stopped believing you.” 

\---

 

Much to Reiner’s dismay, it is not until two days pass that he is able to see Armin for more than a few seconds in passing. He is taught by his father how to barter and respectably trade his goods, spending long hours by traveling through the encampment, learning names of Raiuský members as well as their quirks and varying personalities. His inexperience provides him with sympathy from the tribal members, but his father is quick to tell him that all transactions will not be this easy. Within pockets of the day his father asks him why he is looking about like a fidgeting bird, Reiner stopping his movements at the time, his cheeks getting rosy.

 

“You’ve done well with trading, you can see him tomorrow if you wish.”

 

Reiner looks to his father, known for joking and his booming laugh, but his face gives nothing away. Reiner does not bother to ask who is father is referring to, he knows he has never been transparent since they came to this territory those many years past.

 

When Reiner goes in search of Armin the following day, he is nowhere to be found. Reiner makes three complete circles around the large camp, many peering at him strangely for his repeated, frantic pacing. Reiner almost wonders if Armin had been hiding from him, his feelings changing upon seeing each other. He walks back to the tents in which some of his tribal members are staying, but then he sees a girl, the same one Armin had been speaking with when he had arrived. She has blue eyes that look like river snow, her nose long with a bent in it, light blond hair framing the sides of her stern face. She stares at Reiner for a few seconds too long.

 

“He’s by the trees,” is all she says before she walks past him.

 

He finds Armin only minutes later, lying within the brightly hued grass, comfortably stretched on his back. Reiner doesn’t know if Armin hears him approaching, but he lies next to him, the familiarity of their position almost painful for it had been far too long since they were in this same place. Armin doesn’t open his eyes, and Reiner believes he may asleep in the calmness of the day, but he begins to speak, stories and anecdotes spilling out of his mind. Just like when they were younger, Reiner listens.

 

 Armin begins by telling Reiner whatever comes to mind, how he had seen him around the camp the previous two days, how glad he was to have seen him again, how much time had passed between the two. The transition is easy, Reiner knows it is bound to come out, and Armin tells him of the past years where the two were only memories for each other. During one point, when Armin’s voice has become strained, Reiner turns to him to see if his face is as troubled as his breathing.

 

Armin is looking up at the sky, his profile still softened by his characteristically soft features, but his nose has become pointed, his eyes an elegant almond shape. His nose is bruised red at the tip, his cheeks just as scarlet. Reiner can see that there is a tear streak falling towards Armin’s ear, disappearing into his hair. His breathing is labored and it feels heavy, build up within his throat making it sound painful. But he won’t look at Reiner, and knowing this, he looks away from the personal scene.

 

“Sometimes I wonder if it would have been easier for you to be here,” Armin finds his voice again, the shakiness still there from his emotions, but the statement is solid, even a little guilty.

 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t,” and Reiner truly means it.

 

He hears Armin sniffle, sees an arm extend up to wipe his nose, “It’s selfish of me to want that, you couldn’t have helped, I know that now.”

 

Reiner has always known that given a reason, people turn malicious, but to what extend depended on character. Armin’s appears to be the same as when they were both boys, Reiner can decipher that much, Armin’s words could have come off as childish and spiteful, and they were grudgingly in nature, but they were truthful all the same. If Reiner could have been present, even earlier than he finally was, it might have made a difference. A significant one, however, would never be confirmed, yet Armin knew that no matter Reiner’s presence, he would not have been able to help him in any such way. What solace could have he given Armin besides acceptance, besides a friendship? As he looks at him again, Reiner knows he couldn’t have helped him at all, and he feels powerless to the realization.

 

“How long are you staying?”

 

“A few more days at the most.”

 

“Don’t go far from me, please.”

 

Before Reiner can see the plea in his eyes, Armin scoots himself closer to his broad body, aligning flush beside Reiner’s side. On some sort of instinct, Reiner brings an arm to rest across Armin’s shoulders, pulling him even closer. A type of jittery beat begins to thump within his body, it feels similar to when Reiner’s eyes first saw Armin, the sensation having grown stronger when he saw just how much Armin had grown after so long, and now it feels dizzying to have him so close.

 

“I won’t.”

\---

 

Reiner spends the remainder of his days close to Armin as he had wished, as Reiner also wanted. Knowing that the time they have together is limited, they speak openly, the last of lingering regret and injure slipping away to allow for the easiness they once possessed freely. Within only hours they are able to laugh again, Reiner can look at Armin without feeling as if he is imposing and Armin finds short comfort in the warmth of Reiner’s arms.

 

On one of the final days Reiner is the one pulling Armin along, telling him he wants him to meet someone rather important. At first Armin believes it to be Reiner’s father, for he had seen the burly man about the camp, but had never been formally introduced. However, to his surprise, Reiner brings him to a man only a little taller than Reiner himself, broad-chested but without the bulk of Reiner’s own form. They share the same type of kind spirit, it feels familiar even, and when Reiner tells him Erwin is a _qual’a’tao_ as well, it makes sense. The trio talk for hours, much of what Reiner had neglected to tell him, of the own turmoils he had faced during their separation, come to light and Armin cannot help but feel guilt for only just hearing of all this, from the lips of a stranger. He watches Reiner closely while Erwin speaks, seeing the fondness within his expression, how it is relaxed and glowing, and Armin believes why Reiner truly wanted the two to meet. They part ways when the sky darkens sometime later, all retreating back to their tents.

 

When morning comes Armin is quick to rise, whispering to L'vinoye’s sleeping form that he will be by the river, she dismissively waves a hand and turns over. He walks a considerable way away from the camp, only upstream, but to a portion many do not tread. The day feels as though it will be warmer than most, and in the solace of his own company, he strips himself of his leg coverings, the intricate beaded coverings that he wears over his chest, he loosens the wrapping around his solitary braid, shaking out the kinks and waves it had created in his hair. He brings his legs close, holding them in position with his arms and thinks of nothing in particular, a strange melancholy not far from his mind.

 

The sun begins to become warmer on his skin, burning a bit as the time progresses, but he remains in position as his mind wanders to thoughts of Reiner. Memories of his voice, his oddly colored eyes, the strength of his face, they all take on a new meaning for Armin. Before, he would find a saddening comfort when he remembered that there was someone out there who wanted to understand him, not in the same way as the members of his tribe, with labels they placed on him, but how he saw himself. Armin had been so taken aback by the interest Reiner placed in him, he had never met another who had wanted to learn of him so inquisitively. It was different than any interactions Armin had had before, and though he tried with others he had met throughout the years, no one else quite lived up to Reiner’s standard. The most saddening part for Armin was not that he missed Reiner in every sense of the word, but rather that he was so stricken by the very fact that someone like him existed.

 

As Armin was tangled in his thoughts, both old and new, he did not hear Reiner’s steps as he approached him. It took a few seconds too long for him to see a figure to his left, and by then it was too late. Armin looked up to him, his long hair covering a small portion of his back, the blond strands cascading over his shoulders and the skin of his arm, and Reiner thought he could be a nymph, the beautiful, mysterious creatures of his clan’s folktales of the forest. Reiner tried not to think much of Armin’s bareness as he sat close to him, but further than he would have liked. The two sat in silence, a strange tension holding itself in the air, and Armin moved his arms to his hair, wrapping it into makeshift knot that he knew would only hold for a few minutes.

 

“Thank you for introducing me to Erwin,” Armin began, Reiner could note a small change in his voice, although it was sincere.

 

“He’s knowledgeable, he’s seen a lot and has had the visions for longer than anyone I know. I thought he could help you somehow,” Reiner explains, watching as the calm water moves across the rocks below them.

 

“He seemed to have helped you quite a bit, I wish you had told me,” Armin says quietly, and it is almost as if Reiner hears a type of guilt in his voice.

 

Reiner breathes out in reluctance, “It seemed wrong of me to bother you with any of that, you have always had much more to deal with, it didn’t seem fair—“ and Armin stops him, softly, with a glance.

 

“It’s not just that,” and Reiner is looking at him now, “why didn’t you tell me you belonged to him?” Armin finally asks.

 

Armin notes how Reiner’s entire body seems to lean away from him, bewilderment on his face, he almost looks offended.

 

“He doesn’t--I don’t, we . . .” and he sighs, licking his lips, looking at deep blue eyes, “Armin, I still don’t dream of anyone, neither does Erwin. He helped me when no one else could, I owe him so much for his concern, but that is all.”

 

The flood of relief Armin feels is welcomed, but displaced at the news. He feels happiness at knowing that Reiner still has not met another like him, the one he will dream about, the one Armin can never be. His possessiveness, the kind he as always felt for Reiner, seems to bloom in that moment. Neither of the boys have found anyone, they only found one another by a cruel coincidence, but both know that is not enough. Deep in their stomachs, they simply know. They are fond of one another, but it will never progress more than that.

  

Still, they act on that fondness because at the moment it is the best they have.

 

Reiner sees Armin turn away from him, and he believes it is because he had upset him because of something he had said, but instead Armin lies down, knees remaining bent, and he looks up at Reiner.

 

“Come closer,” he tells him.

 

Reiner moves per his request and Armin gets a weak hold on his arm, bringing him down in the grasses with him. They feel cool against his back, surprisingly, as the sun had been beating on his bare back for sometime, creating the finest bit of slickness from his sweat. He looks at Armin, his face only inches from his own and sees as his lips quiver slightly, as if he wanted to bite on them, and he closes his eyes for a brief second. Again, he leads to bring Reiner’s hand over to him, nestling it between the bare skin between his legs. Reiner feels the coarse hair below his fingertips, and his hand moves further between Armin’s slender thighs. Past the hair he feels two folds, his middle finger sinking between them to find smoother, slick skin. Reiner moves his fingers across the small area, not exploring further, simply trailing them up and down as much as he is allowed in the tightness.

 

Armin had closed his eyes at a point, possibly when Reiner began to move his thick fingers, he’s not sure, but he opens them again to see the bigger blond craning his head to watch his own movements. Armin licks his lips and steals a kiss from the corner of Reiner’s mouth. It surprises the blond and his eyes meet Armin’s, the movement of his fingers stopping.

 

“Keep going,” Armin brushes his lips against Reiner’s as he speaks, looking into his eyes closely, seeing that they almost appear to be a pale, murky green. Armin feels Reiner’s fingers begin to caress him again, but it is not sufficient enough for what he wants.

 

Armin’s lips hover next to Reiner’s for a few seconds, the feeling between his legs so foreign because they are coming from another’s hand, and he pushes their mouths together. Reiner does not respond to him immediately, their lips remain pressed close, but they do not move. Reiner doesn’t know where to focus his attention and when Armin licks his warm tongue across his still lips he feels himself react. Armin brings a hand to turn Reiner’s face toward him and kisses him as deeply as he can, having limited experience with the act himself, only having watched others older than him get lost in it. He wants the same, he wants to feel Reiner again, he wants them close, his heart flutters with a primal desire.

 

Reiner follows Armin’s rhythm with his lips, closing and opening, creating a pleasured suction to keep them together. He uses his tongue when he feels Armin’s, he feels inside his mouth, surprised by how it feels cool and foreign. The hand on his cheek does not leave, rather it grips the skin more, crushing their faces together with urgency. Their breathing becomes short and they are only allotted a few seconds of pure air before they retreat back to the warmth. It’s addicting and strange, little noises are coming out of Armin’s mouth, from panting and gasping and Reiner has never heard something so enticing, he feels his cock begin to swell. His fingers do more to explore, moving a greater distance down and up and he feels even more slickness than before. He feels an indent, the tips of his fingers already coated with wetness, and his middle finger pushes into the opening. Armin breaks away from him, groaning quietly, looking at Reiner with his parted lips. All the while Armin had kept a loose grip on Reiner’s wrist, now his fingers travel over Reiner’s, urging his finger to go deeper.

 

It feels hot, tight, and the walls surrounding him are soft and wet. He sinks it deeper, not knowing when it will be too much, and then he’s in past his second knuckle. Armin sighs into his mouth and begins to kiss him again. Armin guides him, gripping his hand, pulling the finger out and moving it back inside again. His legs begin to spread, the action somehow innocent and inviting, until they are open, one of his knees leaning against Reiner’s legs. He licks across Reiner’s tongue and pulls away.

 

“Two fingers,” he instructs and lets go of the grip on Reiner’s face, moving his own face until it’s resting against the curve just below Reiner’s shoulder and arm. Reiner brings his finger out, rubbing some of the wetness across the other, rubbing them against the folds to coat them even more, and begins to push past the resistance of Armin’s opening, slowly. Reiner looks at Armin, his eyes closed, mouth open again, and he sucks in a breath. Reiner pushes the fingers in the slightest bit, pulling them out the same length, then pushing in farther. He repeats this until his knuckles touch Armin’s folds. He thrusts them shallowly, just as Armin had shown him and he hears Armin whine.

 

Reiner’s fingers are thicker than his own, the entire treatment feeling vastly different from when he performs it on himself. It feels wonderful having another execute it, Armin escapes and enjoy as he feels all the ways in which Reiner’s fingers move inside of him. With his eyes still closed he hears himself whisper _faster_ and feels those fingers thrust into him with more force. He feels himself turn his body toward Reiner, somehow his strong, firm arm is being clutched between Armin’s palms, the same arm that his providing that incredible pressure. Reiner’s fingers move with more fluidity, sliding in and out of him easily, and he can hear the lewd sounds they make while they move inside him, his own desire coating Reiner’s thick fingers. He doesn’t know how to tell Reiner, to curve his fingers into a pillowed mound inside him, to press on that one spot that makes himself buck whenever he does it to himself, and settles for the digits to slide past it, the friction enough for now. Reiner goes even faster and Armin nearly shouts, nearly bites at the skin of the Ngruský’s arm.

 

Reiner feels his erection heavy inside his leg coverings, the look of Armin’s debauched, flushed face is a vision he never thought he would see. Now he’s groaning against his arm, clutched between his hands, and whenever he gives a particularly aggressive push he feels Armin’s teeth graze against his skin, perhaps to muffle himself. He doesn’t want to take the attention away from the smaller blond, but at this point his cock has swelled to fullness, painfully resting against his thigh. He brings his free arm to unhook the loop holding his legs coverings in place and begins to drag them down the best he can. Armin’s eyes open and sees Reiner attempting to free himself of his clothing and he sits up, the fingers dropping out of his tightness. In a second he sees Armin on top of him, his hair coming across his shoulders to crowd around his face and chest. He pulls at the sides of the leg coverings, yanking them until they have gone over Reiner’s thighs, past his knees, and are on the ground somewhere away from them. Armin looks down in curiosity, seeing the darker curls surrounding Reiner’s manhood. His cock is swollen, the girth thick, and the head is flushed red and wet.

 

“Put this leg up,” he tells Reiner, one of Armin’s hands resting on the knee behind him to indicate which one. Reiner bends his knee until it’s grazing against Armin’s folds.

 

“Just like that,” he says, putting one hand on Reiner’s chest, the other going between where their skin meets to touch himself. He brings his hand out and wraps it around Reiner’s cock, slicking it with his own juices. He starts to pump his hand, his grip getting tighter and Reiner’s head falls back for a second at the delicious feeling. At the same time Armin begins to grind himself into Reiner’s thigh, the hair of his legs creating a unique friction against him. Reiner feels the wetness on his thigh as Armin ruts on it, swiveling his hips in all types of directions to achieve a satisfaction. All Reiner can do is respond to him, watch him as he moves on top of him, how his hair fans across his face each time he shifts, how the muscles in his stomach coil and uncoil, how his eyes, an ocean blue, are dazed and unfocused. He’s wincing now, not from pain, but from a hot, dizzying pleasure and Reiner graciously moves his hand away to wrap it around himself.

 

He encases his cock in a tight hold, the precome pluming at the tip from the lewd picture of Armin is providing, enough to coat himself comfortably. He swipes the head with his thumb when the drags the foreskin back, the pressure at the head feeling the most sensitive. He continues to stroke himself, faster, as Armin grinds himself roughly on him.

 

“Reiner,” he manages to speak out, the only word he had said upon his labored, gulped breaths of air.

 

“Close?” Reiner rasps out. He sees Armin nod and continues to maneuver his hips, his arm is beginning to shake and he sees the muscles within it begin to strain. Reiner moves his hand even faster, biting his lip as he feels his skin blazing, suddenly their surroundings feel incredibly stifling, enough to make him want to faint. But he wouldn’t dream of it, the strain he’s feeling in between his legs is too consuming to ignore, he is teetering on the edge and groaning, whimpering out for release.

 

Armin is the first to find it, his arm gives out when he does, he cushions himself onto Reiner’s wheezing chest, still rolling his hips until he feels the necessity leave his body. His body is pulsing, every portion of it feels heavy and exhausted. He feels Reiner’s other leg kick up, both knees now bent, the heels of Reiner’s feet digging into the ground for traction as his hand moves so fast that he hears skin slapping against skin. Armin looks at him, how his neck is stretched out, eyes screwed shut, and he opens his mouth to cry out, the deepness of it almost sounding like a growl. Thick droplets of come project out of his cock, Armin feels them scatter across parts of his back and he isn’t bothered by it at all. Reiner strokes himself a few more times, until he’s sure he can’t take anymore, and his arm drops into the grasses, his entire body quaking. Armin lays his head on Reiner’s sticky chest and they remain in such a position until they have collected themselves enough to move once again.

 

Two days pass after that and Reiner is gone once again. He makes no promises of returning, although Armin is certain that he wants to. They embrace each other, perhaps longer than necessary, but Armin breathes in Reiner’s scent once again, hoping that this time he may remember it. Armin wants to kiss him, just once more to know what it is like to feels lips upon his own, but he doesn’t. He watches as the group leaves, Reiner lost somewhere in the middle, and while they are still within view he turns around to return to his tent. It is midmorning and he should be helping with preparations of some sort, but again, he doesn’t. He rests his head against the furs and closes his eyes, wondering why, after everything, it couldn’t be Reiner.

 

\---

 

Four years pass since the boy’s encounter, but it passes with more ease, for Armin did not have a promise to hang on to, he never imagined he would hear of Reiner again. News of it comes in the night, he hears the dogs begin to make a commotion outside, their barks not unfamiliar and not with a warning bite. Armin is buried within furred blankets, at peace, beginning to doze from the day’s work. He hears his tent open softly, the sweet fragrance of herbs filling his nose and feels the rustling of a body, the familiar breathing patterns of L'vinoye once she’s settled herself close to him in the darkness.

 

“What was all that outside?” he manages to mumble, sleep already the most incredible proposition for his tired limbs.

 

“Someone that doesn’t know how to travel alone, he said he was suppose to get here during light,” her voice is small, but her tone is disinterested.

 

“Were we expecting someone?” he continues to humor her.

 

“No, but that didn’t stop him from coming here to see you, _again_.”

 

Armin is simply too tired to begin to think of all those that have come to see him unexpectedly, or with invitation. It could be any of those from the true Southern clans, those with tanned skin and dark hair, all claiming to be seeking some odd type of enlightenment that Armin can solely provide them.

 

“Who is it?”

 

“That Ngruský, Reiner.”

 

Armin feels a jolt of some type begin in his chest, radiating to every corner of his body. Suddenly he doesn’t feel so tired, he nearly wants to jump out of his skin from the flush of emotions that has poured themselves into him. He’s happy, so strangely happy, he’s panicked, terrified, anxious, anything but blissfully groggy as he was just seconds ago. He wonders if L'vinoye can hear how fast his heart is drumming, it feels as if it’s overtaking his chest, he can feel the rapid pace in the tips of his fingers, in his head, in his ears. It has become quiet, the dogs have ceased all their uproar, but all Armin can hear is the drum reverberating in his body.

 

“I told him not to bother you until tomorrow, he nearly collapsed in Arkandy’s tent as soon as he invited him in.”

 

Armin wants to ask L'vinoye if he was fed, offered any water, are there sufficient bed coverings for him, did he look tired, or happy, does he still have that warm smile, did he grow, is his hair still that bright yellow shade, just like those flowers that grow by the cliff?

 

Always a quick sleeper, he hears the relaxed, steady breathing of the blond next to him before he can voice the ridiculous onslaught of questions. But he is able to ask them to himself, perhaps the most important lingering in the back of his mind.

 

_What made Reiner come back?_

\---

 

Hours later, after tossing and turning for what felt like a cruel eternity, Armin pretended to awake while L'vinoye herself began to rustle to consciousness. She braided his hair like always, watching him as he changed, her gaze lingering more than ever as she knew the Ngruský would take up all his precious time, just like the last time he visited. She reminded Armin of his presence within the camp, to that he looked at her, offering her a chance to join the two, but she declined, excusing herself to processing the harvest. She watched him go and readied herself for a full day of work.

 

Armin found Reiner sitting at the far left corner of the camp, hunched over while he splashed water to his face, cupping it in his palms from a large circular bowl. When Reiner stood up, stray droplets and streams cascading down his bare chest, Armin could note that he had grown once again. His hair was still the same shade of blond, still cropped short, but every other part of him had become sturdy and firm. His back had become even more broad, his stomach toned but still taut, the prominence of all his movements were illuminated by his refined physique. He was no longer the boy who Armin had seen years ago, he was every essence of a man now. It felt intoxicating to look at him, remembering the way they could talk so freely about all their personal and petty grievances, how they could laugh and touch each other tenderly without confusion. The smallest details came rushing back to Armin, time had made them fade from importance, but seeing Reiner in front of him, still beautiful as he had always been, made Armin remember why nostalgia was always painful.

 

They greeted each other just as they had parted, embracing one another with steadfast determination, Reiner practically wanting to dissolve Armin into his bones. But as they pulled away Armin noted that Reiner did not linger like he had when they parted last, he did not let his palms travel down Armin’s shoulders to his fingertips, the anguish of letting go was not there anymore. Armin did not know if he should feel relieved or foolish for remembering something so trivial. Nevertheless he still smiled at Reiner, seeing his familiar face created a happiness for him, as it always had.

 

When Reiner was fed, bathed, and had greeted many acquaintances from the camp, he found himself in Armin’s personal tent. The two had talked while Reiner went through the motions of being settled in the camp, yet they both danced around the topic of the reasoning behind Reiner’s sudden, bewildering visit. It was not until Reiner was nestled against the furred blankets, sitting cross-legged, the fact that Reiner was even in front of him a miracle Armin swallowed down in silence, that Reiner’s voice dropped, a serious, tone, riddled with choppy shyness emerged.

  
“I . . . Erwin—um,” his hand went back to scratch at his neck, running up and down his cropped hair, “He found him. The one from the other world, well, it was more like Levi found him. I thought they were going to kill each other at some point, Levi was a nasty little thing when we first met him, similar to a pup when they get angry, or maybe like one of those wild hogs that are more feral than others, ” he looked at Armin now, watching as his eyes were trained on him with consideration, as if anything Reiner was saying was actually of value.

 

Reiner exhaled, full bodied, his back hunching over, “Erwin told me you might know of others, in other territories, that’s-“ he looked down, almost ashamed, “that’s why I’m here.”  
  
Armin felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, similar to when he had parted from Reiner, a strange type of dread, a thick, sticky sensation. He realized he would have to part from Reiner once again, after this, it was presumed that he would truly never see the tall, muscled man in front of him once he heard Armin’s guidance. Armin wondered what it would be like if for once, he was selfish, if he kept Reiner here for himself because he still craved that touch that set his skin aflame, still longed for that easy comfort they always carried around each other.

 

“Of course,” Armin’s voice came out quieter than he wished, “Of course,” he repeated, louder, with a more authoritative tone, offering a small smile to Reiner.

 

Armin told him of what he knew, how there were more tribes to the south below them. The climate was warmer there, sweltering when one reached the true south. There were two tribes Reiner could find that had confirmed others such as themselves, ones Armin knew of but had never met personally. Due to the small fame Armin had among neighboring tribes, words of other _qual’a’tao_ made it to his ears rather rapidly, from merchants or esteemed leaders in other clans. More often then not these individuals gave the information willingly, wishing only to benefit Armin with the knowledge, yet some sought out other pleasantries that Armin could offer them, the wonderment of his body not escaping their private requests.

 

Armin told Reiner that he would find the Aleutsch in the middle south, a large tribe with two known _qual’a’tao_. The journey there would be fairly easy, remaining on a straight path with no immediate hurdles in terrain or the fear of extreme weather conditions. The journey would be long, however, perhaps three times the length between the sister tribes. Finally, Armin told him of the Escót in the true, barren south. There were also two confirmations of _qual’a’tao_ in that region, the journey there considerably longer even in Aleutsch territory. He told Reiner that he had never traveled such extensive lengths, but the journey to the Escót clan would be more taxing on the body because of the heat and lack of resources. Armin advised Reiner to have someone travel with him if possible.

 

While Armin told him all he knew of the confirmed reports, he saw a light in Reiner’s eyes grow. It colored his entire face, giving him the most brilliant glow that could only be described as hope. His back straightened throughout their discourse, his entire body angled itself closer to Armin, as if he did not want one precious word lost between the two. He nodded when appropriate, furrowed his brows when he heard of the Escót, rested his chin in his palm in concentration, but most noteworthy of all, he smiled. It was pristine, easy, and gleaming, and it did nothing to soothe the coiling jealousy Armin felt in the pit of his stomach. Armin would lose Reiner once again, have him slip through his fingers like honey, slowly, thickly, with a sickeningly sweet presence left in his wake.

 

When Reiner was set to depart, only a few days later, he gave Armin that smile once again. For all Armin had grown, he was still shorter in height than Reiner, having to look up to see his face. Reiner brought a hand to the side of Armin’s face, letting his thumb sooth across the skin that clung to his cheekbone. It was the only gesture of comfort Reiner had offered him within their last days together, never seeking him out for anything more than his presence. Armin wanted to rest his fingers against that hand, to hold it close to him, to show Reiner how much he did not wish him to go. But he fought the feeling that was quaking inside him, balling his hands into fists as they trembled, and when Reiner saw tears roll down Armin’s face, he brushed them away without a word.

 

“Be careful,” Armin whispered into Reiner’s palm, selfishly leaning into his touch, wanting to hide his face in the Ngruský’s large hand. Reiner watched the display with pain, the flush of red on the tip of Armin’s nose, the droplets of tears still clinging to his dark eyelashes. Armin further nuzzles his mouth into the palm, kissing it tenderly before Reiner moves it to tangle into Armin’s hair. He strokes the soft, cool strands, wanting more between the two, but only allowing himself this much. Armin does not look up to him when he finally speaks.

 

“I will,” Reiner promises him wholeheartedly.

\---

 

Late summer gives way to fall and Reiner wonders if Armin can see the grand displays of changing seasons from where he is, as Reiner is void of that exhibition for the first time in his life. There are few trees that truly represent the cycle of year, however, surrounding him, Reiner only sees green. An ode to home, he supposes, but these trees remain unchanged throughout the year, he is told by the Aleutsch, _Evergreen_ , is the word one used.

 

Reiner wonders if that word can be used to describe something besides flora, such as eyes, the eyes of the boy who told him of the word, the one who welcomed him into the foreign territory with such courtesy it reminded him of Erwin. His eyes, a mix of the beads in Armin’s clothing, of the seawater at a certain depth, of those trees that surround them. It’s the most curious shade of green, the hue never dimming, always a brilliant, demanding green.

  

When he had exhausted Reiner with relentless questions of his clan, asking how in the world he had ended up with the Aleutsch, Reiner told him as simply as he could what he was, and if Eren could help him somehow. Instead of offering any true assistance, he rounded up another individual, a lanky boy who seemed to bicker with Eren rather than offer his support. Still, they edged Reiner on, listening to whatever he thought was necessary to share, of his clan, of the reports of others, of his journey that was rather ill planned in the grand scope of things.

 

“I’m just searching,” he confessed, “that’s really all I can do.”

 

“Well if you’re looking for others,” Jean began, ruffling a hand through his oddly cut hair, “—You found them!” Eren interjected proudly.

  
  
In no time, fall became winter once more, the company of Eren and Jean did not waver, but Reiner soon realized why Jean always wore such a sour expression around the green-eyed boy, his incessant ploys from hunting, to gathering, to everything far and in between was taxing to be around. Reiner would look on as the childhood friends would go back and forth with insults, sometimes wondering if they had fought physically at some point. However, with most of Eren’s ideas, Reiner could laugh and enjoy watching the boy try as he might to complete them to fruition, that was until Eren decided he wanted to travel north.

 

“Are you a suicidal bastard?” was Jean’s initial response, Reiner’s own wasn’t a far cry.

 

“That’s too dangerous, Eren,” Reiner criticized, only to get a stern look from the boy, “The cold will kill you before you even make it to a camp.”

 

“I know how to survive in the cold,” Eren was quick to snap, his determination burning in his eyes.

 

“The winters here are nothing compared to back home, the first camp you’ll find will still be somewhere much colder than this. Eren, you have to understand that, it’s too risky right now.”

 

“Why do you want to go up there anyway?” Jean asked, Eren shooting him another punishing look.

 

“Why do I need a reason?”

 

“Because no sane person travels to the north, _alone,_ without one. You really are suicidal,” Jean mumbles the last bit, however it does not fall deaf to anyone’s ears.

 

“Maybe I don’t think Reiner should have all the fun,” Eren smiles, but it does not escape Reiner that it is forced, “maybe Reiner’s friend can help me too.”

 

 As if on impulse, Reiner turns to Eren, only to find the boy’s eyes cast down in avoidance. For the months Reiner had known the Aleutsch, he has never been particularly shy about any subject, safe for mention of Armin, never addressing him completely with a strange timidity. At first Reiner believed it to be shy curiosity, for Armin was quite well known, news of him having reached this far south and beyond. Armin was never talked ill of, but Eren was the first to show a consistent interest in the Raiuský, asking simple questions here and there. Reiner would sometimes talk of Armin freely, indulging Eren’s curiosity without being asked, however he would keep personal details to himself. No one knew how deeply Reiner cared for the blond, no one but Armin himself, but even he no longer seemed convinced as Reiner tried to distance himself in their last days together. Goodbyes between the two seemed too familiar and increasingly painful each time, he simply wanted it to hurt less this final time, if he could.

 

Pain was replaced with a foreign jealously. Reiner could not deny Eren’s wishes to seek out his own adventures, letting him explore all the possibilities at his disposal. Eren was short-tempered, brash, caring, gentle, but smart, having brought up the topic with the obvious knowledge that a journey north was out of the question. But just as he always danced around his interest in Armin, he was lightly trekking around a relationship he knew little about. In Eren’s own way, he was asking permission, that sentiment confirmed as he brought up his eyes to meet Reiner’s.

 

“He would be happy to help,” Reiner tells him, “but wait until the snow begins to melt, at least.”

 

Eren’s expression softens, giving Reiner a small nod before his eyes fall to the ground once again. Jean begins to talk of something Reiner cannot feign interest in and he watches a smile tug at the corner of Eren’s lips, his head turning in the opposite direction of his companions to hide it. The same jealousy settles in Reiner’s chest, growing more torturous the longer he looks at Eren. Finally he has to turn away, wondering if winter will end soon in this part of the territories, wondering if he will feel any different when it does.

 

\---

 

There is always one particular day when the depravity of the warm sun comes to a close, when the snow begins to melt and remains that way, when green triumphs over blinding white once and for all. Armin always welcomes such a day, it means new beginnings, another rebirth, another cycle starting. Yet, this year, he is unable to celebrate the splendor, the complete thought of it slipping his mind as his skin feels hot to the touch, yet his bones feel like they have been frozen over. He feels a terrible thumping just below the dip of his neck, fatigue weighing on his body, his own stomach churning with nausea. He doesn’t fall sick often, commonly only once or twice a seasoned year, yet he dreads the toll it takes on him each time. He had awoken L'vinoye with his moaning of stomach pains in the early hours of the night, cold compresses in constant rotation on Armin’s head because of her tender dedication to him.

 

From the times L'vinoye has left the tent, the flaps being drawn away to let her pass, Armin has seen the light changing outside, getting gradually brighter as the day has continued. He wants to believe it is midmorning, but his head is in too much of a haze to put together coherent thoughts. He does note, however, that L'vinoye has been gone for much longer than her previous errands, and he wonders if the boy who has been attempting to court her has succeeded in carrying out a conversation that spans longer than a few seconds. The thought creates a lazy, dazed smile on Armin’s lips, a laugh bubbling from his mouth without his usual restraint.

 

He hears voices outside, ones louder than the usual chirping around his tent, L'vinoye’s present and booming, the other deeper and completely unfamiliar. He wonders if he’s imagining the exchange, the voices becoming increasingly louder and closer, his own ears not quite able to make out the muffled words. From his position on the ground, swaddled in blankets, he sees the flaps open once again, L'vinoye’s icy blue eyes meeting his own, her expression disgruntled. She comes over to him, placing the bowl of chilled river water to the side, kneeling close to Armin’s head.

 

“What’s wrong?” he attempts to ask, the words coming out slurred and prolonged in their execution.

 

She puts a folded cloth into the water, submerging it, then wringing it out tightly. She pushes Armin’s fringe back from his forehead, replacing it with the compress.

 

“There’s someone here from the south, they requested to talk to you,” she tells him in a hushed voice, but before she can finish Armin is already jolting upright, ignoring the protesting in his head and muscles.

 

“Armin, stop—“ she puts a hand to his clammy chest, easing him down again.

 

“Reiner?” he nearly pleads, his head filling with memories of their goodbye, of explaining the Aleutsch, the Escót, of his eyes, his face, of his body curled into itself because the journey was too punishing, of his eyes vacant from death.

 

“No,” L'vinoye shakes her head, “An Aleutsch, a friend of his.”

 

“Let me see him,” Armin starts to rise again, but the familiar hand pushes back down a little more forcefully than before.

 

“He can wait until you are better, and stop trying to get up, you’re not leaving this tent, Armin.”

 

“Please, I just want to see him,” he just wants to ask him of Reiner, confirm he’s alive, that he’s well.

 

Armin sees the flaps open abruptly, held up by two tanned, bare arms, a threaded cordage wrapped around each bicep. His chest and stomach are equally bare, tanned the same spiced hue, lean and taut muscles strained underneath. Armin’s eyes travel up slowly, a mop of dark brown hair tickling the shoulders of the stranger, a few pieces falling into his eyes. But, _oh._ Those eyes. Armin never knew such a color existed before that moment.

 

“What do you think you’re doing!” L'vinoye screeches, getting to her feet in record time. The stranger slips from under the flaps, walking further into the tent with such ease that Armin can only ogle at him with freedom from the cloudiness his sickness produces.

 

“He said he wanted to see me,” the stranger says, smirking proudly from his intrusion.

 

“Armin doesn’t know what he’s saying, get out! He needs rest,” L'vinoye tries to shoo the boy away, the entire scene all to amusing for Armin to watch without an outburst himself. L'vinoye looks at him in horror as the stranger only smiles wider, both hearing a cackling from the blond on the ground, the entire situation feeling like some strange dream.

 

“I can take care of him,” the stranger announces, about to take the spot L'vinoye had been only seconds ago. But before he can even think of the possibility, he is shoved roughly, landing on the ground with a thud. L'vinoye hovers over him, the look in her eyes fierce, her tone just as vicious.

 

“Do you have any idea who you are talking to? You do not simply enter into this tent without deliberate permission; you do not talk to him with such carelessness. You forget your place once more and I will reprimand you. You hurt him and you will be exiled from this territory. Do you understand?”

 

Armin watches as the casual smile all but fades from the stranger’s face, his expression looking reminiscent of a child being scolded by an elder, although he appears to be the same age as himself. He can see the deep blush on the Aleutsch’s cheeks, it looks so warm against the bronzed skin. Armin sees him nod, slowly raising himself from the ground, turning to leave the tent.

 

“What’s your name?” Armin asks before he realizes it’s his raspy voice he hears in the tense quarters.

 

The boy turns his head back, the muscles of his back shifting to accommodate the movement; he offers the blond a shy smile, “Eren.”

 

His voice seems to carry in the air and Armin can still hear its richness after the southerner leaves.

 

\---

 

As soon as news spreads that Armin is under the weather, his tent is invaded with healers and concerned tribal members. He is purified from head to toe, prayed over, chanted around, and is forced to breathe in the smell of herbs as they burn about him. In two days he obliges his body to cooperate with him, leaving the stuffiness of his tent and the suffocating attention he had gotten for a simple cold spell, he walks around the camp leisurely to let the feeling come back to his rigid body. The notices that the sun provides warmth against his arms and face, no longer did a breeze prickle at his pale skin. As he walks to one end of the camp, he wonders where the southerner is at that moment.

 

Not surprisingly, he had not been offered any news on the strange visitor, and he dared not ask L'vinoye about him after her stern warning. Never had he heard his most trusted friend talk to someone in such a cold manner, while she had never been particularly jovial, she had never threatened someone so punishingly. It worried him in a sense, he realized how quick she was to intimidate without batting an eye, possibly due to her harsh upbringing, an aspect she has never talked about, not even to him. Yet, he was more worried about the stranger. Armin briefly wondered if he had in fact stirred up enough trouble to get run off the camp. In the past two days he hadn’t been able to center his thoughts enough to even think of the green-eyed stranger, although he did remember how out of sorts he appeared the first time he saw him. He had half a mind to think that Armin was completely dazed by a mind-altering inhalant. The thought made him groan in embarrassment.

 

Armin had made it at the end of the camp, rounding the corner, but weaving through its border, wanting to hold onto his obscurity for a few minutes longer as he walked through the tall trees. The longer he tried to center his thoughts, the more scattered they felt. The thought of his illness, L'vinoye, how she had simply appeared one day out of nowhere, how the stranger had appeared in much the same way. Whenever he thought of Eren in the past days, for only a few seconds, his mind would remember his eyes. Their brilliance was nearly ethereal, he thought of the rich color, how big and full of expression they were, how he could place them in the smallest memory inside his mind. He didn’t know where the memory had come from, the feeling itself a strange nostalgia, but try as he might he couldn’t place from when in his life it has occurred. He kept searching for it, as he walked among the trees, he chased it in his mind. It was as if the idea has been placed in his consciousness, so small, and was beginning to grow, its roots overtaking every corner.

 

He saw Eren, his eyes, how his hair was shorter, his face rounder and youthful. He was lying in the grass, a large tree just feet away, where he was peacefully dozing. He was wearing different clothing, a deep green shirt that covered his arms; there were holes within the shirt, below his collarbones where a thread was woven through. He wore boots for leisure, his pants ending just above where the boots began. Armin looked about him, he saw large buildings behind him, a valley of grasses and flowers in front. But the most captivating of his unfamiliar surroundings was an ominous wall, built tall, taller than the buildings and trees combined. Was it to protect or enclose?

 

“Are you thinking of the outside world?” Armin heard a voice say beside him. He turned to Eren, seeing him awake, gazing at him with a tired, content expression. Armin says nothing, staring at Eren in the same wonder he did in his tent only a short time ago.

 

“You look at the wall a lot when you do. You don’t have to hide it, not from me,” He says, rolling onto his side to better look at the blond. Armin is still at a shock for words, Eren is speaking to him in such a way, as if they know each other well, as if they are friends.

 

“What do you mean,” Armin can barely say, the lightness of his voice as just as surprising than the circumstances he has found himself in.

 

“It’s okay, Armin. I won’t tell anyone. I think about it a lot too,” he says, his fingers seeping into the grass, moving them about to let the blades touch his fingertips, his palm.

 

“What do you think about?” Armin asks, this time with a steady voice, inherently curious of anything Eren can tell him.

 

“The ocean. Ever since you told me about it it’s all I think about,” he laughs through his nose, looking back at Armin, “all the water in Shiganshina is clear, but I wonder what it looks like if the ocean is as big as you said. I wonder if it looks more like your eyes.”

 

Armin can only stare at the boy in amazement, his mouth opening slightly in awe.

 

Eren is quick to change expressions, his face souring before looking apologetic. He scrambles into a sitting position, waving his hands about in dismissal.

 

“Don’t get embarrassed, I’m sorry!” he gasps out, his face coloring a light pink.

 

“If you’re sorry then why did you say it?”

 

The fear in Eren’s face drops, his hands slapping across it to hide his features. He groans and huffs back onto his back onto the ground. He slides his hands in a slow, deliberate manner, Armin still seeing the rosy dusting of his embarrassment, but Eren is pouting, refusing to look at him.

 

“I wanted to,” he mumbles, his face looking extraordinarily like it did when he had lost his footing within Armin’s tent. But of course, it isn’t, Eren is so much younger here, roundness in his face, his eyes even bigger and shining, seemingly carefree just lazing in the grasses of this unfamiliar place.

 

And as fast as Armin sees it, it’s gone. The memory, or was it a dream? That place, so foreign, but so tangible he could have reached out and grasped the flowers, the grasses below him, could have gently touched Eren’s arm just to confirm the feel of his clothes below his fingertips. It feels as though his mind is desperately trying to place that scene somewhere that feels familiar, he had seen it before, he must have. Armin tries to refute it, for he had never seen somewhere as beautiful as that village, so serene and calm. He always saw destruction in his unconscious; decay, rubble, chaos, beasts of gargantuan proportions, with smiling mouths and hallow, glazed eyes. This scene of leisure, of Eren, simply placed there with his strange clothing and exquisite, peculiar green eyes, it felt _safe._

 

He’s still walking among the trees, lost in his heavy thoughts, when he hears branches crush under weight ahead of him. He looks up and sees him, leaning against the thick trunk of a tree, his appearance just the same as when he had first barged into his tent days before. Half of his hair is pulled back however, the only difference is now Armin can see his ears, some dark hair still gently caressing the sides of his face, framing it softly. His expression is clouded, Armin can barely tell if he’s angry, sad, disappointed, all of it a matted mix on his face, he walks closer.

 

Eren’s eyes never leave him as he takes tentative steps toward him. When he stops, feet away from the southerner, those eyes give him a once over, as if searching for something, they drag to every corner of Armin’s body, finally reaching his face, his own curious blue eyes. Armin doesn’t register the atmosphere until that moment, both are far enough away from the camp that they will not be noticed, both are alone, both strangers. Armin doesn’t know anything about Eren, only that he is an Aleutsch from the south, that he is acquainted with Reiner, that he traveled so far seeking Armin alone. Eren could be dangerous, could have killed Reiner for answers, Eren could be anyone, could do anything in that moment.

 

Armin only startles when Eren’s voice breaks the silence, the flickering, uncertain tension between the two.

 

“You saw it too, didn’t you?”

 

There couldn’t be anything other than the village Eren could be alluding to, for this is the first time Amrin had seen him since the night of his arrival. Eren wants no indulgence, no meandering around the topic. He is direct, and Armin is both grateful and terrified. He can’t find his voice, can’t seem to move another inch although he feels as if he is trembling, the palpations in his chest beating as quickly as a prayer drum. He doesn’t know the person in front of him, but even then, he cannot find it in himself to be afraid. He is not afraid of Eren, only the idea he represents. One that is becoming startlingly clear for Armin as the seconds pass.

 

Armin can only nod his head, the movement so slight he wonders if Eren even saw it at all.

 

“You know what it means then?”

 

He does. There is no way to interpret the situation in any other form. This moment, this realization, is the very reason Reiner could not commit to him. It’s the reason Armin couldn’t hate him for it, as much as he wanted to, as much as he wanted to demand for them to be together against all odds. Reiner could never be his, the stars were not created that way, the Gods would not allow it. Had Reiner sent him, Armin wonders. Had he known from the second he saw Eren? Was this his parting gift?

 

“It means…” Eren begins, pushing his weight off the branch to step closer, “It means,” he begins again, stopping inches away from the blond, “I’m yours.”

 

Armin doesn’t see Eren’s face fall as he walks away, nearly running back into the chaos of the camp. The voices and bustling bodies surrounding him don’t provide the same distraction they always do, he can only feel the emptiness of his stomach, his heart still drumming in his chest, how his body feels as if it will collapse at any second due to some sort of structure, the normalcy he had known for years being drawn out from under him with those simple, honest words.

 

I’m yours.

 

I’m yours.

**_I’m yours._**

\---

 

Armin had never had someone belong to him before, never believed anyone would want to give themselves over to him in such a offering manner. Briefly, upon the daze of blossoming adolescence and wandering hands and his fluttering heart he thought Reiner was someone deeply, profoundly special to him. He thought, naively so, that because Reiner had been the first to pay him attention, the first who sought nothing out of him but his company, the very first to touch him so intimately, that he belonged to Reiner in some overwhelming, devoted way. However, the more he thought about it, the _years_ he had to think about it, it all seemed like nonsense in the end. But then, that burly blond would appear once again, and he would feel his pulse rush from the attraction. But that’s all it was, he had solemnly decided, attraction, hope, jealousy, sorrow. They were all one in the same, whatever he felt for Reiner, it didn’t matter in the end. That was the cruelest part of it all.

 

But it was not as if others had not wanted the privilege. Armin had had admirers throughout the years, but there was always a reluctance attached to their actions, their words, their stories. They seemed trivial, the interaction always seemed somehow forced, as if they desperately wanted Armin to find something significant within them. But he never did, as horribly discourteous as it sounded. They were never those golden eyes that gleamed at him, that rough voice that got deeper each time he heard it, they were never those delicate, terrified fingers that had touched him when he was dripping from the heat the other had produced. It didn’t matter who it was, an esteemed leader, a powerful hunter, a spiritual prodigy, no one had affected him so thoroughly, and if he were to be honest, he wasn’t sure if he wanted another to.

 

That decision was once again, out of his hands, he realized. In a matter of a few days he had met a foreigner with eyes like jade, unafraid, hot-headed, without shame, and with such arrogance it made Armin positively furious. He had declared, with absolute certainty, that _I’m yours._ How those words still rung in his head days later, how definite they sounded coming out of his mouth, his expression was sharp, his movements swift, and his _tone_ , as if he was doing a favor explaining the plainness of it all. But those words, they were an oath, an agreement between two, they were never spoken as freely as Eren had said them. All Armin knew with certainty were his own clan’s customs, and words such as those were a vow that created the most trusting, serious bonds he had ever witnessed. Those words created families, those words spoke of love and companionship, they were not spoken lightly, they were a declaration to someone, to the entire tribe of utter devotion.

 

Then, how was he suppose to accept such a declaration from a boy he had only just met? How could those words hold any merit without years leading up to them? Perhaps, he had to wonder, was Eren simply acting in a way he thought correct given the circumstances. Was it a simple routine he could follow, seeing him in that world, stating a damning fact to him the next day. Could it be that easy for him to succumb to, without a complaint, as if there was no error in his words.

 

_Does he feel anything at all?_

 

Armin felt everything, it was so consuming sometimes he felt he had to scream, but he never did. He was insecure, unsure of himself, always calculating, always thinking, always feeling without rest.

 

_How does it feel, Eren? How does it feel that I haven’t stopped thinking about you?_

“Who are you?” Armin wonders out loud, almost wishing the wind rushing around him could answer this question so he would never have to look at those beautiful eyes again.

 

\---

 

In the beginning, what Armin learns of Eren, is from a careful distance he controls as much as he is allowed. He is only given a short amount of time to ponder about the bold boy before he must return to his own schedule, help prepare for the nearing winter, help gather grains, dry and prepare various herbs and meats, meet with elders, interpret his visions, tell them all the details but one. There has been one detail that has consumed him like a wave; it feels as though every time he closes his eyes he can feel it, this sweet, warm feeling of safety and belonging. It is all the more powerful in the other world, where he can look at Eren without as much fear as he feels in his own tribe. In the other world he can be close to Eren, he can touch him, the careful strokes of his fingertips, he can smell the mild fragrance of his clothes, a scent somehow familiar and welcoming each time it is carried by the wind.

 

Armin knows Eren sees all that he does in the other world, confirmed only once by his words that morning seemingly so long ago. However, Eren has done nothing to approach Armin once again, both just skimming the surface of the quandary they have found themselves in, some type of tension expanding each time their eyes meet across the distance. Armin solemnly wishes, in the deepest cavity of his chest, that Eren will be just as confident as he was the first night they met, to come waltzing up to Armin and demand they speak, finally and concretely about a progression in their relationship, whether that is even a possibility at all. However L'vinoye has not left Armin’s side since the incident when he found himself defenseless against his own cold spell, fiercely protective of him as ever. Eren has only looked at Armin when he is given an opportunity, his gaze lingering longer than necessary, Armin noting how the poorly masked sadness within it affects him more as the days pass.

 

And the days pass as quickly as ever before, the camp hurriedly making the last preparations as they see frost begin to coat the grasses around them within the mornings. No one is without a job during such transitions, even the young children become quiet with tasks that teach patience, concentration, and reward. With all the physical movement the majority of the tribe members do, they can escape the need for thicker apparel, however they are aware that the prominent furred clothing is soon to become a staple in only a short time.

 

When Armin can he escapes into the forest to hunt for small game the children can use to learn proper preparation techniques. He takes a small, round pebble and a slingshot made of braided and manipulated cordage. Miraculously, no one follows Armin during his treks into the forest, a privilege he still holds from when he was younger. He only spends the time allotted to catch a few animals, never gone for much longer than two or three hours. Yet, today he has finished quite a lot in terms of preparations and allows himself more leisure time, but before he begins with his tasks he walks further into the thicket, following alongside the river, relishing in the sound it still makes before it is frozen over. Armin walks alongside the water before he reaches his favorite area, a spot that is relatively flat, the grasses even more overgrown, a large tree nearly hanging over the river. As he nears closer, he sees someone within the water, standing perfectly still.

 

Armin steps as carefully and quietly as he can, both trying not to alert the figure and to give himself supplemental time to calm his own anxieties when he sees the light hit the tanned skin. Hair looms over the face of the southerner, his head looking directly down into the water, a spear being held motionless a few feet above the water’s surface. Armin wonders if Eren came with that spear or has made it since he had arrived at the camp. What other belongings has he brought from his home?

 

Armin sits between a grassed indentation between two rocks, a small distance away from Eren, enough to not break his concentration, although Armin swears he sees his back straighten for a few seconds, his head turning the slightest bit in his direction. Armin waits patiently, unsure of why he is allowing himself to be alone with Eren once again, but thankful for the opportunity. Although, Armin does not have to wait long, a sudden flash of movements startles him as the spear is forced into the water, being pulled out only seconds later with a particularly large fish flapping with its last seconds of life, still hoping to get away. Eren walks out of the water, carefully pulling the fish off of the sharpened end to only drop it onto the ground somewhere Armin cannot see. Eren lets the spear fall as well, his actions relaxed and aloof, and Armin wonders if Eren had heard him at all, if he is even aware that Armin is within his company.

 

But as he thinks that he can be as unimposing as the rocks he’s wedged between, Eren turns toward his direction, his eyes looking even lighter in the sunlight. He steps closer, cautiously, as if he is anticipating Armin to tell him to stop. He moves slowly and Armin looks at him in wonder as he slinks down to the ground, sitting with his back against one of the rocks. Armin can see his profile from his angle, but would have to move if he were to want to see more of the bronzed southerner. He stays in his position, unsure of what will persist between the two, not sure where to begin himself if he wanted to voice all his worries. He supposes his posture isn’t welcoming in any sense, all bunched and rigid, his knees drawn up close to his chest. Eren is looking down and Armin can see his eyes looking all around, catching the barest color of his eyes as they are shaded by his black eyelashes.

 

Armin scoots himself back against a rock as well, still between them, but now he is completely visible, able to see all of Eren, who looks up at the motion. Green eyes meet his in surprise, but with each blink they seem to soften, and Armin notices that is a full-bodied reaction. His shoulders gradually lose their stiffness, his fingers stop fidgeting, his lips relax from the thin line they were drawn into. He suddenly looks so vulnerable, soft even, but there is still a tension, a distance that the two both feel between them. Armin realizes that he had put it there, had let it fester throughout the days, or had it been weeks, since Eren had arrived. The vulnerability Eren is exuding is an invitation for Armin to take if he chooses, he is sitting perfectly still, waiting for Armin as he had waited for the fish, but Armin knows their roles are reversed, Eren is not the hunter in this situation, nor is he prey.

 

“I should apologize—“ Armin begins.

 

“No,” he hears the gruff voice stop him, the tone heavy and thick. Eren looks away just as quickly as he had protested, his gaze training to the air in front of him.

 

“I-“ Armin hears it as faint as a whisper, “-I, I’m sorry for what you might think of me.”

 

“Eren, don’t patronize yourself. I truly don’t know anything about you,” Armin tries to explain, his comment seems to sound much harsher coming out of his mouth, yet it still makes Eren snicker in a type of wounded way.

 

“Yes you do.”

 

If Armin were to compare the Eren in the other world to the one before him, he would not notice any apparent difference in character. Both are charming, reckless, loyal, and endearingly blunt. The southerner before him is darker however; skin spiced to such a rich tone, his hair darker, longer, always wilder, every part of him more tangible and exciting. But Armin’s apprehension towards him is for all those differing facts, he cannot run away from this boy, he cannot wake up and find himself transplanted somewhere else. Eren is persistently familiar in both worlds, to varying degrees. Anyway he looks at it, he cannot escape the boy that has burrowed himself a home in his mind. Armin does know him, he knows the weight of his hand in his, how his green cloak rounds off his shoulders, the sound of his breathing while he is sleeping next to Armin in the barracks. But those details tell him nothing about the boy looking at him with such a pleading expression it pains Armin to know he put it there from his fear, a fear that still persists within every fiber of his bones, but one that is not so crippling in this moment.

 

“Can you say the same about me?”

 

Armin sees Eren’s lips rise from the view of his profile, it’s a small smile, but it is enough to give Armin hope.

 

“No,” he turns to the blond, “but I know enough to trust you.”

 

Armin wonders just how accepting Eren will be once he learns about him, if he hasn’t already. Will he be just as trusting? _Will you be as blindly accepting?_

 

Armin’s gaze drops to Eren’s hands once again, suddenly noting the angry slashes across each of them. Their color hints that they are healing, possibly only a few days old. Armin’s legs and arms move at their own accord at the wounds and he finds himself only inches away from Eren as he studies the cuts closer.

 

“What happened?” he is nearly looming over him, but still he has not touched them, as desperate as he is to help.

 

“I tried to hunt larger game, the ones deeper in the forest. My blade wasn’t much of a success,” he extends his arms out for emphasis of his failures, turning his arms one way then the other.

 

“I didn’t know such excursions had been planned.”

 

Eren’s eyes drop once again, almost in childish shame, “They weren’t, I was alone.”

 

“Why would you put yourself in such danger?”

  
  
“I’ve been told I’m a suicidal bastard,” his arms drop once again to his lap and he leans his head back against the rock, his eyes closing, a small smile played on his lips.

 

“That’s terrible,” Armin comments flatly, Eren lets out a breathy, choked laugh, smiling throughout with such warmth it seems to radiate onto Armin in waves, his skin starts to prick from heat.

 

“Eren,” he uses his name boldly, instantly catching the attention of the southerner, “don’t put yourself in danger like that again.”

 

He leans in toward Armin, their faces close now, closer than they ever had been before, but it’s not stifling nor uncomfortable, but Armin’s skin is blazing at this point, his heart trying to keep up.

 

“Would you be upset if I did?”

 

Armin nearly scoffs at this question, just shy of rolling his eyes, “Of course.”

 

Eren leans back, returning to his most recent position of letting the sun bathe his skin comfortably, eyes closed. He looks satisfied now, his expression content and relaxed. Armin's eyes drift down by their own accord, he takes in Eren’s features, both beautiful and exotic to him, even in the Raiuský territories. Eren is only wearing leg coverings, finishing off just below the bend of his knees, every part of him is soaked in his earthy tones, the dark hair of him spotting thickly on his legs, fairer and thinner on his arms, but Armin can see the faint trail that begins at his bellybutton, descending down to get concealed by his covering. Eren still has the identical, braided cordages wrapped around his biceps like accessories. Armin realizes he has yet to ask him about it, had yet to ask him about his clan, about his life, anything truly. The boy in front of him is still a stranger, but the thought is no longer one that causes him fear, rather inherent curiosity.

 

“Eren,” his voice rings out before he can even think of a question to begin, but the southerner makes a noise of interest, his head lolling to the side, eyes opening slowly. Armin feels his body wince without the motion, he wonders when he will stop being paralyzed by those eyes that look like ocean jewels in the light.

 

Armin shakes his head, the look on his face a polite dismissal of the question he couldn’t fathom. The way Eren responded to him enough, the way his name felt rolling off his tongue was so fluid and familiar. Perhaps he doesn’t know this boy in all the ways he wishes, but he knows he could learn.

 

\---

 

Only a short while later winter arrives within the territory, the silent, white brutality of it promising the completion of another year. The difference between the pleasant conditions of weeks prior and the bitter cold is all the more striking when the level of noise around the grand camp quiets to only the small conversations few can hold up for only minutes in the wind chill. The ones that fair the elements are the hunters, going for necessity rather than sport, the rest walk between tents to visit, or remain in their own during the hours of the day, occupying themselves with various technical tasks.

 

In winters past Armin would remain in his tent for a great majority of the time, L'vinoye always keeping him company. They would speak of the most mundane topics, anything to pass the hours, many times delving into promiscuity. If anyone were to see them, they would think they were lovers wrapped around each other, L'vinoye stroking Armin’s long hair, Armin feeling the ridges of her collarbone with his pointer finger. Armin deeply loved L'vinoye, she had been his companion for years, devoting herself to him when he never uttered a word for it, Armin always wondering how she had showed up in the exact moment he was so vulnerable to the changes happening within him. Armin was indebted to her for the support she had given him throughout the years, protecting him when he believed it all to be too much.

  
They lay like that among the furred blankets, wrapped in the comfort of each other, L'vinoye speaking of news among the clan, but truly just repeating gossip she had heard from others.

 

Her voice is light and quiet, her fingers drawing lazy lines on the ridge of Armin’s shoulder.

 

“He’s rather self sufficient, although he didn’t necessarily know how to sew.”

  
  
“Who?” he asks, his thoughts having been drifting between two worlds for the last few minutes.

 

“The southerner, he collected all the furs for his winter clothing. Milius must have told him of the best furs, the next day they couldn’t find him, and he came back with all this blood covering his hands. He’s either terribly stubborn or admirably willful, but at least he’ll be warm,” she shrugs the last bit, as if she hadn’t cared if he had perished, although Armin knows the two of the them have been seen talking sparingly within the past weeks.

 

“Has he been staying with Milius since he arrived?” he craned his head up to look into her clear blue eyes.

 

“He’s the only one who offered to take him in, somehow everyone knows of how he entered your tent without permission, he is seen as something of a vagrant. The only reason the elders have not told him to leave is because you have not said anything directly.”

 

Somehow Armin knows this, has sensed the simmering hostility that follows Eren whenever he moves about the camp. He has endured without complaint all these weeks, any word against him has not fallen from Armin’s mouth, a testament that he is not without his favor. All know Eren traveled such extreme lengths to see him, Armin himself unsure as to why exactly he had, however none have seen the two interact. Armin had only talked to Eren in such degrees as to constitute a conversation the single instance by the river, the only other times have been within his dreams. He has had no visions, his own acceptance of the other world filtering into his subconscious as soon as he closes his eyes and surrenders, the dreams themselves nothing fantastical. In his dreams he is typically walking, sometimes being led by Eren, their fingers holding onto each other’s. He does not speak much in his dreams either, but he is only slightly more bold.

 

Others do not know of the world the boys escape to, it is their own secret, one Armin relishes, for in his clan he does not have the comfort of having so many private aspects.

 

“Why are you making him wait, Armin?” she asks tenderly, her voice still so quiet, her hand stopping her gentle ministrations.

 

“I’m still trying to come up with what to say to him. He came to me with a purpose, I’m not sure I can fulfill it,” he confesses, although L'vinoye knows the superficial aspect of what his words truly mean.

 

“He was searching for _you_ , Armin. Are you afraid he will somehow resent you?”

 

He’s terrified of that reality. He’s horrified to even voice it, unsure of just how much Eren has heard of him from word of mouth. He is prized and cherished within his tribe for what he is, but he came to realize soon after his visions began, that there was a slight detail he did not possess within his own world. His identity was absolute in the other world, yet within his clan, he still struggles with the daily reality of his own fluid expression.

 

L'vinoye would be a fool to not see the glances the two boys give each other in passing. She had become so attuned to Armin over the years that she was disrespecting herself if she did not pick up on how his gaze would divert in Eren’s presence, the way he would tuck stray locks behind his ears to occupy his hands, how his chest would flush. Eren looks at Armin as if he is a precious child, with consideration and wonderment. If only Armin would look at Eren for longer than a few delicate seconds, he would see that the southerner could never resent him.

 

“He gave himself to me. Completely, as if his own life was not his own. He’s all I see when I close my eyes, and when I open them, he’s here as well. I don’t know what to do,” he admits.

 

The simple words from Armin are all the conformation L'vinoye needs, she wraps her arms around the boy tighter, cradling him to her body. By the thickness of his voice she knows he is holding back his emotions, but in their private tent, she hopes he will let them fall freely.

 

“Don’t take his actions lightly, Armin. He does not seem the type to submit to anyone. Be grateful for him, that he is able to be so certain of his intentions. He is not asking for anything in return, you must know that. Even if _you_ come to resent him, he will always be yours. That is all.”

 

Armin knows he could never have sour intentions for the Aleutsch. He wants to know if his skin is just as hot beneath his fingertips as it is within his dreams, he yearns for that closeness with such an ache he can no longer hold back his heavy heart.

 

\---

 

It’s during the winter equinox when Armin steals Eren away during the night fire. Everyone is out of their tents for the night, a large fire built within one end of the encampment where the snow has been meticulously cleared, children running with companion dogs chasing them, babies held tightly by their mothers, elders preaching of changing seasons, folktales, creation stories, and of _qual’a’tao_. For whatever reason Armin cannot feign any interest in another year of retelling by those that do not experience what truly encompasses his life, and those of others like him. The elders speak of wisdom passed on to them from generations, but it falls on Armin’s deaf ears, they speak as if he is not present among them, as if the realities they speak of are not as crippling and exhausting to try and decipher. Somehow Armin finds Eren’s eyes across the flames, makes for his hand, and they walk away before Armin can hear the elders speak of the stories of the stars and soul mates.

 

Armin can hear the crunching of snow beneath their feet, he can see the breath leave his lungs each time he exhales into the darkness, and if it were not for Eren’s hand in his own, he would think he is walking alone, their steps perfectly synchronized. It only takes a few yards before Armin realizes how childish he is acting, storming off in a huff, unclear of the destination he is leading, refusing to turn back due to his own stubbornness. Eren provides nothing but comfort in his presence, following Armin along wordlessly, his fingers tightening their grip around Armin’s hand ever so often.

 

They walk for sometime, the light from the great fire diming to nothing, they walk until they are surrounded by silence. They reach a cliff that signals the end of the Raiuský territory at one end, the drop only spreads to open pastures, but in the pale moonlight the blanketed snow looks like a sea of white, the end completely unseen. It is here that they stop, Armin lets go of Eren’s hand, suddenly shy that he had grabbed it without a second thought, as if it was an instinct. They look at the horizon and Armin can hear Eren’s fevered breaths as he tries to calm his lungs from the labored trek. Armin himself feels hot and sluggish as well, pulling his hood down from his head to let the cold air hit his sweat-dampened hair.

 

“I’m sorry I dragged you here with me, I just couldn’t listen to those stories again,” he tries to explain, a deep sigh tumbling out of his mouth to further demonstrate his annoyance.

 

“I don’t mind,” he responds with a small laugh, “I’ve heard them all too many times as well.”

 

Armin hadn’t even considered that notion, he simply wanted to escape for his own selfishness. He looks at Eren, his hood still draping across his head, the furs surrounding his face beautifully. His hair looks even more inky, a midnight black in the dark, his eyes look startlingly clear, their color almost a pale, sea green. His skin has lost its bronze hue, looking muted and chalky. His  expression is troubled however, and he continues to look at the expanse in front of them as he speaks.

 

“They were going to explain the stars next, if I remember correctly,” he begins, and Armins nods although he is sure the gesture escapes Eren, “how two can be born from the same one, how you can search all your life in the hope that you’ll find that other piece of your soul. Some never do,” he scoffs, “but I’m sure they never mention that part.”

 

“You’re angry,” the blond states and Eren turns to him with an expression he’s never seen.

 

“Have you told _anyone?_ I know what is said of me, what everyone thinks of me, and I don’t care. But you—no one knows, do they?” his tone is accusatory, but his eyes are pleading within his soured expression.

 

Armin shakes his head just slightly, too stunned by Eren’s quick reactions, unsure of how exactly the conversation had gotten to this point. There is obviously grievances Eren wishes to acknowledge, and Armin wants him to, however embarrassing they are for him to admit to.

 

He sighs, a mock smirk on his lips and his eyes roll back to the horizon, Armin sees his jaw lock in the moonlight.

 

“What would you have me say, Eren?” his voice shakes, his tone too loud for the silence that surrounds them, but Eren’s vision snaps back to Armin’s deep blue eyes, “One day you simply show up, the next you…you’re there, in that village with me. You’re talking about walls, and the ocean, as if it all somehow is connected. What am I suppose to say when nothing makes sense?”  the words feel so heavy to him, his throat feeling sore, his eyes beginning to blur with tears.

 

He hears Eren step closer before he sees him, the action alone shocks him, his vision becoming clear, and he feels weightless for only a few seconds to have him close.

 

“Don’t—“ he protests, his eyes dropping to the furs covering Eren’s chest. Still, the southerner steps closer, Armin winces into himself, starting to feel dizzy with the shrinking space between the two.

 

“You know I would never hurt you,” the words are out of place, but they try to reassure Armin of some fear he has yet to reveal to Eren, perhaps he’s more transparent then he thought.

 

“I don’t know that,” he confesses, voice still tight with emotion. He sees the furs wave from movement, his eyes looking up at Eren’s green, his hands suspended in the air close to Armin’s face. He draws back and the hands lower to Eren’s sides once again.

 

“I’m no different, Armin. Not there or here. Trust me, just as you do in the other world.”

 

His hands raise again and Armin lets them, he feels their warmth before they settle on his skin. The contact alone makes his eyes water, hot tears escaping from his eyes from happiness or fear, he’s not sure. Eren’s thumbs stop his tracks from reaching any further down his face, rubbing his cheekbones in a comforting motion. Having Eren so close, touching him so soothingly, it makes him shudder from some type of relief. Relief that he’s not wishing it was Reiner in his place, that he can enjoy such simple contact from someone else, that it’s Eren who is bringing him this strange, chaotic peace.

 

Armin brings his own hands to rest on Eren’s exposed wrists as he relishes their heat.

 

“So warm,” he murmurs and he hears Eren’s quiet laughter.

 

“You see, no different,” he offers.

 

“But I am,” Armin tells him sternly, gripping the southerner’s wrists slightly tighter, taking his addictive heat away from his face, letting it go completely between them.

 

Eren looks at him with such gentleness, patience, waiting for words that Armin will not allow to come just yet. He wants to explain it all to Eren, he desperately wants to tell him, but not like this, not within the early hours of the morning when he feels his fingers becoming tender from the cold, when seconds ago he was crying in frustration. He wants to tell Eren when he asks, not because he has offered it for him, but because he wants to understand it for himself. It is a part of Armin he has never been given the option of taking such precautions with, but Eren is not simply a visitor, the more days pass the more Armin realizes just how precious he is becoming to him.

 

The thought makes more tears plume from Armin’s eyes, but this time Eren does not brush them away with his tender fingers, they fall on their own accord and Armin looks at Eren just a few seconds longer in the moonlight before he reaches for his hand again and they return to the camp in silence.

 

\---

 

When Armin’s eyes open again he is surrounded by silence mostly, although there are creaks here and there from the wood beneath bodies as they toss and turn in their sleep within the barracks. He is laying on his side, turned toward the wall, though there is a terribly warm body between him and the structure. Eren lays with his back to Armin, presumably sleeping peacefully. He can feel the comfortable heat radiating off of Eren, Armin’s own blanket tangled by his feet, but he makes no effort to drape it around himself, he doesn’t need to.  

 

His head is in perfect position to breathe in the smell of Eren’s hair, always shorter in length in this world than when he watches him across the camp in his own territory. Armin wonders if perhaps Eren wore it this short when he was the age they both seem to be within this world, young, possibly their fifteenth season year if Armin were to guess. It is still the darkest shade of brown, sometimes catching a red tint within the sunlight. Always glossy and feathered out from it’s inability to just fall from its own weight, the way Armin’s own hair seems to do naturally. It looks soft to the touch, and Armin reaches his careful fingers to feel the ends of a few strands that are scattered across Eren’s pillow.

 

He feels the curvature of the ends and they slip through his fingertips with ease, falling back down to the pillow in silence. He grips them a little more daringly, letting them pass between his fingers, the mild perfume of the soap, or Eren’s own citrus like scent filling his nose. He feels Eren shift, drawing a long exhale that Armin can see, his chest falling beneath his nightclothes. The steady, relaxed breathing is no more, although Armin notes how Eren is still making incredible strides to mimic his unconsciousness, he decides to indulge his act. He buries his hand into the thick, inky hair, feeling the dampness of it at the roots, and Eren tilts his head into the contact. Armin can’t hold back his smile, it reminds him of the various companion dogs from the camp that relish in the contact they receive from anyone. But Armin knows how much he enjoys when L'vinoye plays with his own hair, it must feel equally as soothing for Eren.

 

Armin continues to let the strands curl around his fingers, twisting and coming undone from between his digits, and he lowers his fingers to scratch at Eren’s neck with his nails, just enough to see him visibly stiffen from the sensitivity. In a matter of seconds Eren turns towards him, the hand that had been teasing Eren’s hair remains in place, though it had found a new place against Eren’s throat, he feels a pulse, erratic and thumping, and somehow this dream blurs the lines between reality because Eren is right in front of him, alive and warm and beautiful. His eyes are dark, Armin cannot make out their rich color, but he can only imagine how they would be wide and glowing. He can sense what Eren will do, with their closeness and Eren’s lack of social modesty, he just knows. When he feels lips upon his own, he welcomes it.

 

Their exchanges are slow, molding from just pecks to more fluid, lasting kisses. Armin can hear every sound their lips make as they move together, it is so quiet that even the smallest suction of Eren’s lips between his own is heard like a subtle creak in the dreary room. His lips are soft, supple, and cushion his own so perfectly Armin feels as though he is melting. The hand that was resting on Eren’s neck moves by its own accord back into his hair, tugging the strands a little bit rougher, nails scratching his scalp more forcefully. He can hear the sound Eren makes in the back of his throat, escaping out of his mouth hot into the air as he licks Armin’s lips open. As their kisses grow more hungry, even in these bodies of young boys, Armin feels desperate for the connection between their mouths, their hands, their skin, anything to dull the fire that is burning him from deep inside.  But it only grows hotter, spreading to every end point of his body, making his hips twitch from a heaviness between his legs.

 

Eren stretches his leg over Armin’s slim hips, using the traction of his knees to bring himself to kneel over the blond. The hand that has been in his hair drops, resting on Armin’s stomach and he looks up at Eren, the presence of his body beneath his stronger own making him pulse. Eren comes down slowly, open palms resting on the cot, shoulders hunching until his face is close to Armin’s again. He feels Eren’s hot panting fan his face, his breathing labored and rough, Armin’s own coming out in similar fashion. Eren’s looking at him, mouth open, gaze direct, and Armin doesn’t know what he will do next, what is there to do next in this world?

 

He feels weight drop onto his lap, feels Eren’s cock grind into his own in a slow, torturous circular motion. It feels incredible, different than what he’s always experienced, but just as sensitive, even more lewd somehow. Eren’s moving on top of him, his knees tight against Armin’s sides, his mouth kissing and licking at spots against his throat, the pressure is so consuming he doesn’t want him to stop, to ever stop his salacious ministrations. But it doesn’t feel real anymore, the body he has is responding as it should, but it is not his own—if they were back in their own world he would be wet for Eren, dripping from his arousal, Eren’s cock would be slipping between his folds with ease. This isn’t how it should be, not like this, not with this body.

 

“Stop,” he whispers into dark hair, “Eren, stop.”

 

He does, immediately, searching Armin’s face for discomfort or pain, _anything_.

 

“ _Shit_ , I’m sorry,” he says, his weight moving off of Armin quickly, settling close to him but without any contact, “Armin, I’m sorry, I got carried away, I—“

 

“It’s okay, just—“

 

“I won’t do it again, I’m sorry—“

 

“Eren,” he touches his shoulder, those green eyes snapping to his own again, “It’s okay,” he repeats softly, “but not like this. Not here,” he hopes that is enough of an explanation, still paling in comparison for all he wants to tell Eren.

 

He sees the brunette nod, his eyes still watching Armin carefully. To settle his heart Armin moves closer to him, his forehead resting against Eren’s chest, the comfort of his touch enough to be addicting. After a careful while he feels Eren’s arm settle on the small of his back, resting there until they both drift into another plane.

 

\---

 

It took no time at all for Armin to realize that as stubborn as Eren made himself out to be, he could use the help of a concerned individual at his aid. As good intentioned as he strived to create his own clothing for the brutal winter, they were simply ill made, forced to be reworked within the confines of a tent for the better part of a few days. He accepted defeat as the female elders bickered about his hot head and egged him to watch their quick working fingers as he sat only a few feet away, a permanent grimace on his face that only broke when Armin would come to see the progress throughout those days. It was crucial that Eren be outfitted appropriately, not solely for the winter, but for the yearly pilgrimage to the hot springs, a journey of reflection and renewal. When the necessary preparations were made by the clan, and Eren was acceptable in clothing rather than character, the clan uprooted and began the trek toward the sacred springs.

 

It was a three day journey, only being feasible when the weather was calm and agreeable, and the clan arrived with little incident. They set up their tents a mile or so from the springs, building fires, unloading, and settling. Armin fell right into routine, as he had made the journey for every year he had lived, knowing the processes that followed such a pilgrimage. Eren looked on in wonderment as the clan moved about him, only carrying out simple orders by those he had shared a tent with for the last few months. It was such an incredible migration in scale, it required the efforts of each clans member in order for it to follow as smoothly and fluidly as possible. It took hours, but by the time the sun fell from the sky, all were too tried to even think, Eren himself collapsing onto his furs without a second thought.

 

The next day began at first light, Eren being shaken from his sleep by Milius, the other man’s blue eyes reminding him where he was, the Raiuský instructing him to come outside immediately. Eren follows the orders, scrambling to dress in his coverings and the bright light of morning blinds him. Milius leads him by the arm, moving past others, Eren scrubbing at his eyes from sensitivity. When they settle in a standing position, the focus slowly comes back to Eren, the scenery, the colors, the clarity of his vision is almost instantaneous when he realizes who is at the center of the gathering.

 

Armin stands there, stoically, looking in no particular direction as he has hundreds of eyes upon him. His hood has been pulled back to reveal his intricately braided hair, complete with dyed threads mixing with his own blond. There are two thick, plaited braids that begin above each ear, woven back to come together into one piece at his crowd, melding until they end at the tips of his hair. The rest remains free and untouched, shifting with each gust of wind that blows, his own bangs moving along with each timid current across his dark brows. As if his appearance were not enough to set him apart from the elders that stand next to him, he has a thick, black line coloring his bottom lip, extending from the corners up and out as if it were a crescent moon. Two red lines travel down, each one beginning at the hair of his dark brows, until they reach the curve of his jaw bone. Finally, in the center of his forehead is a single oval, the size of a fingerprint, one in which Eren can only make out during a particularly heavy gust of wind.

 

 

Admist the crowd of members, the decorations of Armin’s apperance, the elders begin to speak ceremoniously. They speak of the pilgrimage, its importance and history for their people, saying prayers to the Gods ever so often, the entire clan bowing to their knees at certain cues, Eren scrambling to follow along. At the end, they bring the branches of a dried plant into their hands, burning them only enough to let the smoke begin to rise from the leaves. The elders circle the group, letting the smoke linger around them, purifying and blessing them all the same, their heads bowing again, eyes closing within prayer. Eren looks on, however, unsure what to offer to the Gods, forgiveness, promises, perhaps considerations. He bows his head in silence, only opening his eyes when he hears familiar, light footsteps approach him. He watches as Armin walks by, the smoke shielding his face until the wind raises it to the skies like a swiveling snake. He sees Armin’s careful steps falter as his eyes find themselves to Eren’s own lidded ones, the surprise of his attention enough to make him forget himself for a moment, turning his attention away to continue on with his duties.

 

Once the branches lose their sustenance, they are discarded and all stand in silence once again. The elders begin to walk into the thick of the crowd, all within their path moving to the side to let them through. Armin follows, the last to walk through the crowd, and Eren is tugged along by Milius once again, Eren losing sight of Armin’s blond hair once the crowd trails after the most esteemed members. They do not walk far or long, Eren realizing they have reached the springs by the change in humidity and temperature. He sees others continue to walk in either direction, settling on a spot along the waters edge, shrugging off their coverings without instruction. Eren follows Milius, the man undressing as well, laying his clothing flat on the ground as he slowly sinks himself into the steaming, pale, emerald waters. Eren follows by example, water lapping at his chest within seconds, feeling his bones tighten then relax at the warmth.

 

Eren doesn’t know how much time passes, but the water seems to take on a color more akin to the skies than when he had previously entered. Milius has wandered somewhere, Eren suspects it is to try and woo the girl of his affections, and he finds himself alone without his familiar companionship. Eren is no longer bothered that no one seeks him out for simply idle chatter, but he prefers to be by himself if the intentions presented towards him are selfish in their nature. The solitary time allows him to think of anything that comes to mind, his visions, his own clan, those he left behind. But somehow, his mind always wanders back to blond hair and big, ocean blue eyes.

 

It seems as though he has thousandths of questions for Armin, many of them he has never uttered, finding an opportunity to ask them comfortably unknown to the two boys. He can only watch Armin from afar for most of the time, wondering what his responses would be if he could only speak to him, be as close to him as they had been the night the blond has stolen him away for a short time. The boldness of Armin’s actions still making Eren smile to himself, trying desperately to remember the weight of Armin’s hand in his own.

 

Eren sees a figure approaching him in the water, briefly thinking it must be Milius, wanting to recount every detail of his rejection, but when Eren turns his attention he sees those familiar eyes. The decorations on Armin’s face have been washed off, his hair darker from the water it is bathed in, the ends sticking to his neck and shoulders. As he swims closer Eren can see how his cheeks are flushed from the temperature, splotches of red upon them. Even his eyes, familiar in both Eren’s memory and longing, are a blue more brilliant than he has seen them before. Eren wonders if it’s a play of the light, or a contrast against the water that makes them shine with opulence.

 

“Enjoying yourself?” he asks innocently as he swims close to brunette, close enough for Eren to see the feint freckles dusting the ridge of Armin’s nose.

 

“I’m not sure if I should be,” Eren confesses with a smile, scrubbing his face from the heat.

 

Armin crinkles his brows, “The religious experience is over, if that’s what you mean,” he laughs, “and you shouldn’t have been peeking during the blessing.”

 

“Was that what that was? You know, nobody really tells me anything,” he intends it to be a joke, keeping the playful conversation between the two, but he always manages to make a comment that makes Armin’s face tense. Eren can almost see all the calculations the blond is making within his mind and he peers at him carefully.

 

“I haven’t made the transition for you any easier have I?” he seems to speak to himself, his eyes dropping to the water.

 

“That was never your responsibility, I’m the one who came on my own accord,” Eren tells him, hopeful it will calm his doubts because he’s rehearsed this within his mind countless times.

 

“It is always my responsibility to welcome guests who seek me specifically,” he explains, his eyes finding Eren’s again as he worries his bottom lip, “but it’s always been harder . . . with _you_.”

 

He says it, almost ashamed, but Eren can understand the context, he doesn’t need further explanation. It’s apparent in the way Eren gave himself to him, a decision he tries not to regret each day he is within the camp, because in that moment it felt right, however inappropriate and utterly terrified it made him as soon as he said those words. He feels it whenever he is close to Armin, the way his heart catches in his throat, how his stomach sinks to his feet, how he can do nothing but think about the sounds he made during that one vision in particular. It always feels as though he is walking on eggshells among the blond, all eyes on him constantly, his good nature enough to make Eren shrink into himself. He is so selfless, _so good_ , so beautiful, but he is not his.

 

“How many times do I have to tell you not to worry about me?” he says before Armin can muster another apology for him, ones he’s heard too many times to count. He sees Armin smile, rubbing the corner of his eyes as if he was about to cry, with the steam and humidity, Eren isn’t sure if he was.

 

“In which world?”

 

Eren always believed it was their similarities in both worlds that proved they existed in different times, how Armin smelled the same, his mannerisms similar, his eyes, his hair, the curve of his nose. Even with their ages different in both planes, Armin is still unmistakably the same individual in essence, however many times he refuses the fact to Eren, the reaction he has toward him, perhaps has always had because of him irrefutable proof to Eren. Yet still, each time Armin tells him he is different, somehow not the same, makes Eren wonder why the Raiuský is so set in his ways for Eren not to confuse the two. He wonders if he himself is also different, not just in surroundings and customs, but if there is a reason he should not associate himself so closely with the boy he has known so intimately within his mind for years.

 

Armin is still studying him, looking upon Eren as if the Aleutsch is a mystery he cannot crack. That calculating expression is one Eren can remember from somewhere, sometime here or there, he is not sure anymore. He doesn’t know what compels him to reach out for Armin’s hand within the water, letting their fingers weave together, Armin eyes still big and blue and open. Eren lets his feet relax in the water as he lowers his head to place a gentle kiss on the skin of Armin’s shoulder. He doesn’t think of the others around them, of who could see the open display of affection, something Armin still wants hidden from others for a reason Eren still has not gotten.

 

“In both, _forever_ ,” Eren finally answers him, his answer again making the gears in Armin’s head turn, but he pulls away before he can let them begin, his fingers losing the contact as well. It’s always dangerous around Armin, Eren has discovered, because he wants more, always wants more than Armin is willing to give him.

 

And he must respect that, as much as the wants to trail his finger down the pointed column of Armin’s spine, to bite at his hipbones, to lick a thick stripe against his throat simply to feel his pulse quicken against the skin—he can’t. He pulls away with the dwindling control he has, the majesty of it an amount to laugh at, and wills himself to look away from Armin’s expression. Eren already knows the apologetic smile Armin would offer him, Eren wonders if the next time they exist, in his forever, if Armin’s rejection will hurt this much.

 

\---

 

He can hear his voice, it’s muffled and distant, but it’s there, almost like his own conscious in the back of his head. He’s tired, his muscles feel heavy to the point of exhaustion, and his will to press on is void from his mind, within any speck of determination he feels within his heart. But that voice, it’s screaming at him, telling him to focus, to listen.

 

_What about the outside world?_   
  
_You said we would explore it together._

_Remember me. Remember your promises._

_Can you hear me?_

_Eren?_

He can remember when he tries hard enough, it’s Armin, he remembers him, he will always remember him. He loves him, he always has. Everything that concerns Armin will be forever, he loves him, he loves him so much. That’s all he can ever feel, boundless love, both joyful and terrible.

 

His vision comes back to him in pockets, he is as tall as the buildings he is surrounded by, he sees others fly past him in their maneuverable gear, yet he knows he is not suspended as high as he is because of much mechanics. He stands on his own feet, he is meters high, he is a titan.

 

_Remember me. Remember your promises._

 

Eren does. He remembers everything, the night with Armin as they held hands in the snow, the journey that nearly killed him from exhaustion and dehydration, all to reach a boy he had never met. He remembers Jean, his clan, he remembers being homesick, he remembers being angry.

 

Rage, uncontrollable, quenching, violent rage.

 

It’s consumed him so many times, made him isolated and alone, made others fear him. He remembers that most of all, how it seeped into his bones in seconds, made him cry out into the bush, made his palms bloody and irritated by how hard he pounded on the ground for relief that did not come.

 

_I remember everything._

It’s that voice again, the same voice that rejected him without words, with only smiles and simple touches that cannot possibly hold any meaning. He can only think to silence it, his arm moving quickly, pain from the contact, a building crumbling by the bricks. Before he can feel remorse, feel anything, he moves it again, the impact fiercer, and his vision is gone again. He is floating but tried, still so tired, and the voice is not far behind, catching up to him, persistent.

 

He feels pain, direct and blinding, and his vision returns. His head snaps to attention, he turns it to seek something that isn’t faceless, or lifeless, anything familiar within the chaos he has found himself in. He sees Armin, younger, hair shorter, face even softer. But his expression is terrified, eyes wide, but without their usual wonder.

 

Eren reaches a hand out, Armin shrinks back, and Eren knows he has seen this before. Animals have done it seconds before they are preyed upon, Armin has done it before, he remembers.

 

_It means I’m yours._

Within the last seconds he is coherent, before he is floating again, he remembers how others have shrunken away from him, from his anger, his quick words and his violent actions. He couldn’t control them because they originated this world, out of place anywhere else. He has always been a monster.

 

He remembers. He remembers everything.

 

_I’m no different, Armin._

 

No, I am not this monster.

 

_Yes. I’m a monster. Forever._

\---

 

When he wakes he expects Armin to be by his side. His eyes fly open, his nose congested and his face hot, he sits up in the dark tent, rubbing his eyes until his tears fade. The silence is maddening, however, going from chaos, the stench of blood, the crunching of bones, to absolute calm, black silence is so debilitating. He quickly dresses, mindful of Milius sleeping soundly next to him, and steps out into the cold.

 

He pulls his hood over his sensitive ears, brushing the last of his tears away before they can begin to freeze against his skin. His sense of direction is still lost and he walks to nowhere in particular. He can only hear his own footsteps against the ground, clear of snow for the time being, he tries to focus his thoughts into each careful step, how his legs move, how the ground feels different beneath each step.

 

A sound makes his head look up, the hope he was pushing down his throat seems to break, he wants to cry when he sees Armin there, walking towards him. His legs fail him and he can do nothing but stand in place, watching through blurry eyes as Armin’s figure reaches him. Seconds feel like eternities as his arms wrap around him the best they can, his own instinctively encircling his smaller frame. One of his hands pull his hood down enough to bury his face into Armin’s thick golden hair, free of braids and textures, kinked the slightest from sleep.

 

He wants his smell, his arms around him, he wants everything Armin will give him. He feels so weak, pathetic for crying, but Armin coos him, soothes him with his touches, and he doesn’t care if there is meaning behind them anymore.  He want to apologize, _I nearly killed him_ , but he wants to suppress the dream just the same. He is lead back somewhere, and it feels like another dream, a pleasant one where Armin is holding his hand again, like they did when they were children.

 

Armin’s tent is dark, but warm, and Armin leads Eren to the ground to sit. He wants to ask where L'vinoye is, why he being allowed to be within Armin’s tent once again after the terrible manner he barged in upon their meeting. He wants to ask, he wants to know so much, he wants to apologize, to explain, but he can’t, his tears continue to fall, rage dissipating to hollowing sadness.

 

“Eren, it’s alright,” his voice is so quiet, the silence allowing him to hear every creak and bubble of his words.

 

Armin sits closer to him, finding a spot between Eren’s outstretched legs, his hands stretching out to wipe his tears away and Eren wonders why this feels so familiar.

 

“I’ve never had anyone with me when this happens,” he tries to explain, “I almost killed you, you saw everything didn’t you?” and he doesn’t know why he bothers to ask, his breaths becoming so labored he needs to think about each inhale and exhale.

 

Armin brings his hands away, he knows he cannot help Eren until he calms himself enough, and watches as he blinks away tears that roll down his cheeks. His eyes slip shut at a point, and his hand comes to his face to wipe away the tracks raked against his cheeks. His breathing slowly becomes controlled again; enough for him to open his eyes, and Armin feels his hand blindly reach out for his own. Armin stops him, taking their gloves off first, he wants to feel Eren’s warm skin beneath his own.

 

After another pocket of time, where Eren simply draws idle patterns into the palm of Armin’s hand, does his voice speak out, rough and scratchy from his exertions.

 

“You looked so scared, I’m sorry,” and he always feels as if he is apologizing to Armin for one reason or another, there is always something he feels ashamed about.

 

“I was,” he confesses quietly, “but not because of you.”

 

“Because I’m different,” he guesses, his eyes trained on the furs covering Armin’s chest, he can’t bring himself to look him in the eyes just yet.

 

“No, because everyone is tested with possibilities of what they can choose to do in certain circumstances. You chose what you believed to be an appropriate reaction, but you never wanted to hurt me. Did you, Eren?”

 

He shakes his head.

 

“I trust you and I was scared because I didn’t know if I could continue to trust you in that moment.”

 

“I almost killed you,” he reiterates painfully, the loose grasp Armin had allowed of his hand tightens around Eren to steady his movements.

 

“No you didn’t. You never tried to harm me, I was there by own wishes. I didn’t want to leave you.”

 

Armin’s words are so gentle and honest, they inspire more out of Eren.

 

“I never wanted you to see me like that.”

 

“How long has it been happening?” his questions are careful, he doesn’t want Eren to feel worse with guilt than he already does.

 

Eren’s eyes rise slightly, Armin watches their movements beneath his dark lashes, “For the last few years…I could forget once I opened my eyes, but, the anger would still find a way out. That’s always been more difficult to control, the emotions are hard to separate sometimes.”

 

He explains it as plainly as he can, as if it hasn’t consumed the better part of his life, and Armin knows there are fires inside him, catching and igniting until he can’t manage it anymore, until it burns him from the inside out. He wonders how many times Eren has gone through this alone, calming himself for no one else to be involved, was there anyone at all to help him?

 

“You don’t have to hide it from me, if it happens again, find me—“ he declares, Eren eyes finally landing on his own.

 

“But you—“

 

“I don’t care, find me, Eren, _please_.”

 

He feels so warm, being cradled against Armin, he feels small and safe. He hopes there is a next time, he wants this closeness with Armin again. His limbs circle around Armin’s waist and he shifts his back to relax as Armin seats himself in his lap. Eren’s hand roves over the dip in his waist, over his thighs, up his back, the feeling of his body beneath the fur coverings driving him mad because it is not enough, he wants to feel Armin so desperately.

 

But his head relaxes against Armin’s chest, he is too exhausted to think properly, all his thoughts selfish and demanding. He feels his hair caressed, nails scratching at his scalp gently, trailing along the skin at the back of his neck. He feels warmth at the crown, the sound it makes enough for Eren to know he’s been kissed, not in his dreams, not in the other world, but here, within this tent. Another kiss is placed upon his hair, and another above his brow. When Eren peers up at him, Armin is smiling, a tried, small smile, and he brushes the hair away from Eren’s forehead, kissing his temple.

 

With each touch he is learning Eren, at his own pace, and Eren wants to give him everything. Wants to tell him that he is Armin’s, he can do anything he chooses, he wants it all.

 

For the first night out of many Eren sleeps in Armin’s tent, they undress and lay within the furred blankets, Eren unable to see the pockets of skin Armin grants him, and only touches his face, and his hair, and his fingers to place kisses on them. The night calms and it is delicate and innocent and the first direct entry into Armin’s private life that Eren is granted. 

\---

 

As winter blends itself into the warming promise of spring, the seasons appear to be the only tangible changes within the camp, the one that is agreed upon and accepted. Eyes have always followed Armin wherever the moves, but they look at him for a different purpose now, the southerner trails behind him more often than not, his own eyes challenging onlookers. There is no formal declaration, no permission requested from elders or others, from one day to another Armin is no longer solitary in romantic companionship. That much is obvious each time Armin seeks out Eren’s hand to tangle their fingers together.

  

There is confusion and hostility towards Eren in the beginning, but as he remains at Armin’s side despite it, he is forced to be included, to be talked to, and gradually and painfully slow, he is thought of less as a foreigner, and more as an individual. But there are still times in which it is too much for Eren, and he hides within himself until Armin can pull him out, in their tent they discover each other again and again and they learn how they are both positively wrecked from the battles within themselves.

 

Armin knows of Eren insecurities, they are whispered to him in the late hours of the night, they go beyond guilt, they are deep seeded insecurities that he really is no different in either world. He is destructive and unstable, and he wonders if he will ever not be someone who lets his rage take over, because he is tired, and he never wants to hurt Armin because he doesn’t understand the war that goes on in his mind. Armin soothes him, he never tires of it, stroking Eren’s hair, reminding him that he is not his emotions, that he proud of him for coming this far on his own, that he is thankful he found him.

 

It is the hushed words Armin tells him that eases his worries, not just the ones within himself, but the nagging thoughts that Armin is only acting in such a way to appease his own conscious. But when he kisses him, down his throat, across his chest, he knows these displays are for no one else but him. It is not until one night, when Armin is cradled between Eren’s bare chest and between his arm that he begins to tell him of his own anxieties and confusion for the detachment he feels within both worlds. His explanations are careful and slow, as if he had never had to tell anyone this in such a way, and Eren encourages him further by letting fingertips brush against the expanse of his naked back.

 

“There were suspicions of me from a young age. I never wanted to express myself in one way, always curious and happy to be between the two that are most acknowledged. When the elders took an interest in me I was told of Hange, I was told I was perhaps similar to them, and it made a great deal of sense to me at that age. It sounded so simple, and I felt any confusion leave me for sometime. I went ahead with the elders instruction, I was blessed and prayed upon, I was declared to be a _nemi_ _-_ _vökva_ , someone fluid and recognized as encompassing and transcending beyond typical expression. I took elixirs that sterilized me and stopped other developments. It was a painful and long process that left me more confused than I believed myself to be originally, many times my body didn’t feel as my own, but rather one that the elders toyed with to fill a desperate wish. To add to it all, the visions became progressively more violent and chaotic, and in the other world I saw myself to be how I had been created originally, different than how I am here. I respond to and am seen as something like a man, but I am not one completely, and I am neither a woman completely either. I am both and it took me years to realize that that was perfectly fine. I am like Hange in a sense, but unlike them as well. I am my own individual.”

 

 _You are perfect,_ is all Eren can think, _you are beautiful and complete and perfect._

“Thank you,” Eren tells him, and Armin sinks into him, relaxed and content, his last worries melting away from the warm touch Eren gives him, from his acceptance, from Eren’s presence alone.

 

\---

  

Spring becomes Summer in a matter of weeks, the gradual resurgence of steady heat enough to remind Eren that the white skin his fingers had danced upon in the private quarters of Armin’s tent will once again be kissed by the sun. His skin will become bronzed and decorated with beaded coverings and intricate patterns that set him apart from all the others. This time is different however, because this time he does not have to look at Armin in baffled wonderment, he is no longer a mystery, he is very much a part of his life.

 

But before others are treated to the sight of how beautiful Armin can be with braids in his hair, and beads, and feathers, and paints, Eren cherishes how complete and divine he looks bare, where the only accessories he harbors are the blush pluming across his cheeks, pricking his nose, and spreading across his chest in waves. Eren buries himself between his legs, pulling them apart each time Armin shies away from the hot suction of his mouth. He traces the folds of his sex with thick swipes, running the organ over every crevice and bump, dipping into his entrance only to feel him go rigid beneath his hands.

“ _Eren_ ,” he pulls at the brunette’s hair, he is already _wet_ , he feels his arousal drawing back and onto the floor beneath him, he can’t take the thumping deep inside him anymore. _More_ , he wants to tell him, _I need so much more_.

 

And Eren is prepared to give it to him, Armin only having allowed him into this sphere of his life a small number of times, each time going further, testing and drawing the boundaries of Armin’s comfort and his desires. Eren knows others have had this same privilege, but never to this degree, never with a familiarity Eren already has of Armin’s body as he has taken him apart loving and roughly as Armin has commanded.

 

Eren gives a last pucker of his lips, drawing in Armin’s most sensitive spot into his mouth, his tounge swirling across his clit before he releases it with a small suck, lapping against it before he draws himself up to better look at Armin’s expression. Eren wipes his mouth and watches Armin panting on his back, his mouth hanging open, eyes lidded and heavy, positively hungry and wrecked, one hand fisted into his poppy colored hair. He’s like an exquisite dream, legs open wide for Eren to welcome him, to take him.

 

Eren draws closer, his own arousal having come back to attention some time ago, it’s heavy and aching, standing tall against his stomach, thoughts of Armin’s pink mouth stuffed full with it only minutes ago makes him twitch.

 

“ _Eren_ ,” the blond breathes again, his desperation catching, and Eren brings himself even closer, leaning over Armin to suck at his throat, strained tight and his head is lulled to the side. He hears Armin whimper when he sucks marks upon him, the sounds loud and vulgar, his own hips beginning to rock against him.

 

Armin whines, his fingers weaving into Eren’s dark locks to give them a firm tug that only results in a growl from the taller boy. Armin wraps his legs around Eren’s waist, legs spreading wider to feel the girth of Eren’s straining cock against him, a cruel tease but a friction he welcomes. Armin breathes hot in his ear at the contact, hips rocking with eagerness to dull the pressure of his provocation.

 

Eren continues to suck blushing welts onto Armin’s bare throat, enjoying all the noises and pleas he makes for Eren, the longer Eren can stand it, the easier and more rewarding it is to watch Armin come undone. Armin squeezes his legs even tighter around his waist, wanting every bit of open space to be filled with the melding of their bodies, he holds onto Eren as an anchor as he grinds the head of Eren’s weeping cock against his clit, feeling his sensitive foreskin pull back with each deliberate movement.

 

“ _Fuck,_ _Armin,_ ” he rasps out licking at Armin’s salty skin, pressing his palms flat against the ground of the tent to hover over his lover completely, Armin’s hand resting on his sides as he looks up into his emerald eyes. His hips still and Eren gives an experimental thrust between Armin’s wet folds. The blond whimpers from sensitivity, pleading again, and Eren can’t last much longer simply looking at his wrecked expression.

 

The southerner plants his knees firmly into the ground, hand gently patting at the outside of Armin’s thighs for release. They fall open for Eren, ready and willing, and Eren gives his cock a few strokes before he aligns it to Armin’s opening. His sensitive head slips in with ease, a small mewl coming from Armin at the easy stretch, and Eren holds onto the base of his cock as he eases it slowly with each swivel of his hips. He remains in control until he is at the hilt, completely buried in Armin’s heat, the feeling maddening and addicting and it takes his breath away.

 

“You feel so good, Armin, so hot,” he groans, the tightness around him absolutely delicious, he slides in and out as slowly as he can manage, “you’re so wet for me.”

 

Armin cranes his head up to watch the base of Eren’s dark cock disappear between his pale legs, Eren’s rough, calloused fingers trailing about his thighs in encouragement, the first impact of being filled enough to cry out so early. Eren feels so thick and heavy inside him, moving in so smoothly by how stimulated he is, every detail of Eren kindling a small, steady fire inside him. When he looks up to Eren he sees his hair falling into his face from the angle, the muscles in his arms already straining by the need to pry Armin’s legs open even further, his pupils blown wide, the muscles in his tanned, slim stomach coiling each time he thrusts deep into Armin. He looks lost in the moment, his head falling back when Armin begins to push his hips into the pressure.

 

“ _There_ , Eren,” Armin’s head falls back from the force, Eren’s cock resting right against the most sensitive spot inside him, “ _more, more Eren, please_ ,” he can’t stop how easily the southerner’s name falls from his lips, so familiar and comforting and demanding.

 

Eren starts to plant his hips against Armin at a more routine pace, his cock is throbbing inside Armin’s wet heat and he can’t stop from pushing into it further, faster, and rougher. The pressure around him is intoxicating, Armin’s body shuddering each time he hits that cluster of nerves inside him, appearing as if he’s losing his mind, his body going rigid for only a second or two at a time, grasping out for any piece of Eren he can reach. Short nails rake down Eren’s stomach, feeling the muscles shift underneath the ministrations, fingers reaching for something to hold onto.

 

“Come here,” Armin whines, Eren relieving the forceful pressure against his thighs, arms falling under the mess of Armin’s blond hair, holding him tightly as their tongues lap at each other sloppily. There’s no technique, they simply want to feel, their tongues fucking into each other’s mouth as Eren continues plowing Armin’s smaller frame into the ground. Armin breaks away from the slickness of Eren’s lips, tasting bitter notes from his own cunt, the taste spurring him even further. Eren’s cock is perfect, its curve hitting him precisely, it feels so good, so direct it’s almost painful, but he’s close, already so wonderfully close.

 

Eren buries his head into the crook of Armin’s neck, still wet from the mark he left only minutes before, already fading from pink to a darker red, Armin’s face following suit. He feels himself falling further into colorful, sinful ecstasy, his hips snapping in some sort of animalistic trance, Armin crying out with more occurrence, not telling him to stop, or to go slower, but quiet, steady demands of _faster_ , or _more,_ of _Eren please, please, please_.

 

Armin’s head feels hot, his shorter hairs sticking against his forehead, the fire starting to consume him quick and completely. He takes away one hand that had become buried in Eren’s humid hair at some point, forcing in between the tight, sticky embrace of their bodies to rub it against his sensitive center, groaning into Eren’s hair from the added effect. He won’t last, he feels as if he’d die if he endured this for any longer, but it’s frustrating just the same, teetering right on the edge of completion.

 

“ _Eren,”_ he begins again, “ _Eren, I’m so close,”_ he barely manages out before the first wave hits him, his entire body going rigid, Eren sadistically thrusting even more roughly into him, his voice being choked out of him into broken, needy noises, his fingers lying limp against him to simply feel the weight of Eren being stroked by his walls. Eren slows to let Armin breathe, his chest heaving, his thighs shaking, even his long, delicate fingers trembling in the brunette’s hair.

 

The tightness from Armin’s powerful orgasm creating a hotter, tighter heat that Eren can’t ignore, it’s complete bliss, and it’s almost enough.

 

“Armin-“ he begins.

 

“Keep going, finish inside me,” his voice exhausted, and he can’t imagine that he can argue with such a request in the state he’s in. He should ask Armin if he’s certain, but he knows Armin too well now, he never goes against his word. Eren’s arms relax, using his elbows as leverage against the ground and looks into Armin’s flushed face as he continues to chase his own orgasm.

 

As soon as he begins to move Armin’s hands find his shoulders, nails digging into the skin from the abundant sensitivity, “Don’t stop,” he says before Eren can even ask if this truly alright, and he continues, hips moving on their own accord, and it is even slicker inside Armin, his cock coated with his pleasure. Armin whimpers loudly, nails grasping tighter, eyes screwing shut, yet his hips still seeking the contact as they rise up toward Eren.

 

It takes only seconds more for Eren to finish, hot cum soaking Armin even further, the warmth making both of them shudder. Armin’s eyes have closed long ago, he feels Eren’s cock pull out from him and he feels empty without the space it took up, juices beginning to ooze out of Armin from their vestiges. Eren’s body finding a comfort in being tangled with Armin’s own, head resting again the blond’s chest and his hair is caressed the way Armin loves to do.

 

Eren only thinks of the soothing sensation of Armin’s fingers and they comb through his hair, the color of his eyes, and the taste of him, never realizing the comfort of being absorbed in someone so completely, being so akin to their touch that it is unmistakable in memory. Armin’s touch has the same pressure as within their visions, but here, now, he can feel every press of his fingertips against his scalp, can feel the way his chest rises and falls into a steady rhythm as his breathing returns to normal, he cranes his head up to look at Armin because for brief, certain seconds he can’t imagine such a person exists.

 

“You knew, didn’t you?” the blond asks, his voice light and teasing, but Eren somehow knows exactly what he is hinting at.

 

“Am I that transparent?” he asks with a laugh, head returning to position against Armin’s milky chest, listening to the muddled palpations of his heart.

 

“I thought about it quite a lot, and there was a very small chance you had not met the others in the southern most tribes. You had met Reiner, he must have told you of the others in the North, all paired off lest for—“

 

“You,” Eren finishes, truthfully surprised it took Armin this long to come to that realization. Of course he had spoken with Reiner about it, countless times for hours, he knew of Levi, of Erwin, had met with the others in the Escót territory briefly before, had grown up with Jean, there was no one else but Armin. He had known for quite some time.

 

“Even then,” Eren begins, exhaling the last of his worries, “we can only go off stories, nothing could have been certain.”

 

He feels Armin rumble with an amused, soft laugh, “You say that now, but I clearly remember you throwing your allegiance to me after only a few days.”

 

Eren pouts, “And I’d do it again! But we’ve come far, haven’t we?”

 

Armin rolls them over, looking down at Eren’s surprised expression from the small distance between their faces, Eren’s emerald eyes dancing across his face, eventually a smile breaks his lips. Armin loves him, as stubborn, brash, and utterly clueless as he is, as riddled with internal, painful struggles that he combats daily, he loves him endlessly, he always will.

 

He says nothing to Eren’s answer, both knowing that they have, Eren creating the possibility, waiting patiently for Armin to complete it.

 

Armin nearly wants to apologize, the fact so plain now that he can look back on it, on their journey.

 

 _I’m yours_ , Armin thinks without a doubt in his mind.

 

_Forever._

\---

 

Days with Eren seemed to melt one into the other, easily and peacefully, that Armin doesn't realize so much time has passed since their first meeting. Armin searches for the warmth of the southerner in the daze of sleep, waking for only a few seconds to reach his hand out to simply touch the sleeping brunette next to him, eyes falling shut just as quickly. Eren is the first thing he sees in the mornings, the smell of his warm skin, the tickle of his hair pressed against him, the rough scratch of his legs as they cling to one another. Armin couldn’t imagine how he had thought that the possibility of anything but this, an unusual, but soul investing relationship, could keep him satisfied.

 

As much time as Armin had thought had passed, it was really no more than two years, and it seemed that he would never stop learning about or from Eren so long as he was completely captivated by him, which was a reality he welcomed once he had accepted it. Today the weather was fair, enough work had been done to warrant a walk down along the river to the tree Armin had frequented so often for years of his adolescence. The pair sat in the sun, the shade being too chilly, even with the abundant warmth that radiated off of Eren’s dazzling, brown skin.

 

“I don’t think I will ever understand your relationship with him,” the blond says, legs extending against the grass, one arm perching him up in a lounging position as he watches the water travel down stream.

 

“I can’t really describe it, we grew up together, fought each other until we were bloody, but he’s practically a brother to me,” Eren explains, legs bent upwards as he rests his weight on the palms of his hands behind him, watching the water as well, but stealing glances at Armin when he gets a chance.

 

“If I understand correctly, you don’t like him necessarily, but he’s to you what L'vinoye is to me?”

 

Eren balances his weight on one palm as he scratches the back of his neck, “Something like that,” he concludes, unsure as to how to explain his tumultuous friendship with Jean without it sounding like a feud between arch-rivals, yet somehow that explanation would be just as fitting.

 

Armin mulls it over, having something tangible to compare it you, and he realizes just how lonely he would be without the companionship of the serious blond. She had been his most trusted friend for years, and still is, but if she were to be taken from his life so suddenly he’s not sure how he would adapt without her company. He looks at Eren as he thinks of the possibility of such a reality, one that Eren has been living for quite a long time, a detail he never mentioned to Armin before.

 

“Are you lonely—without him, I mean,” he asks, the question sounding childish and he can hear Eren snort in his mind before he does it into the air seconds later.

 

“I’m not lonely without that horse-face, he’s caused me more problems that I want to think about,” he says, and Armin can practically roll his eyes because he’s not sure how he didn’t see such a crude response coming from the boy.

 

“But,” Eren begins, surprising Armin into attention, “I do miss home a little, even if that means having to see Jean.”

 

Armin watches Eren for a bit longer, his freshly cut hair just barely grazing the tops of his shoulder, swaying slightly in the mild wind, the southerner turning back to glance at Armin, his emerald eyes still stunning the blond when he sees them so full of endearment. Armin pushes off his arm, coming to his knees to scoot closer to Eren, letting one of his arms fall loosely around his bare torso.

 

“Tell me about it,” he murmurs against Eren’s arm, leaving a feather light kiss, “You’ve never told me about your home much,” but when he has Armin can’t help but smile at how his face glows.

 

“It’s green, really, really green,” Eren sighs, letting his head lean against the crown of Armin’s, “big trees everywhere, open pastures, rivers, it gets cold, but not like here, it only gets cold enough to snow every once in a while. It’s really beautiful,” he says the last but in a near whisper, eyes cast down for an instant showing his own longing for the familiar.

 

“We should visit,” Armin suggests, leaving another kiss on Eren’s arm, looking up at his expression.

 

“It’s a long journey, it really wasn’t an easy one,” Eren admits.

 

“You’ll be my seasoned guide, then,” and Armin won’t surrender, he wants to see where Eren grew up, he wants to see his childhood home, learn about the places he played at as child, meet all those individuals from his stories.

 

Eren laughs, “Ask me again before fall begins, that’s my favorite time of year.”

 

That’s quite a few months from now, but Armin is prepared to wait, he won’t forget such an important detail to Eren, or the face he’ll make when they finally arrive all those months later, his expression ecstatic, or the way his kiss tastes like sweetness and love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> L'vinoye Serdtse, in Russian, translates to Lionheart. Which is as similar to Leonhardt as I could get.
> 
> I think it's rather important to address a few details within this chapter because I feel that they may be misinterpreted. The first being that this is a complete work of fiction, although I did pull quite a bit of inspiration regarding Armin's character to individuals within tribes, cultures, civilizations where there were male-to-female trans* individuals who were highly regarded for their knowledge of two expressions. Armin, however, is not such a character here. Unlike Hange who is known as a non-binary character in the manga, Armin, here, is much more fluid in his gender expression, although he prefers a 'male' expression. Armin is unsure as to which expression he prefers in his younger years because he is considered male within the origin world of his reincarnation, the sex he has in reality does not match. Although his title within his clan is respected and known as one of being gender fluid, unlike Hange who was known as non-binary, the eventual rituals he endures and the guidance from others seem to pressure him to conform into such a role. In the end he realizes that his uncertainty is valid given his own experiences, knowing he does not need to please anyone but himself.
> 
> Given that explanation I do need to stress that this is not at all a critique or interpretation of how trans*, non-binary, etc folks may or do feel. Many know they do not have the body they are comfortable in or one that fits their own expression, there is no uncertainty or gray area. I do not speak for these individuals and did not create Armin within these parameters to offend or confuse anyone. Again, this is a work of fiction within the context of an ancient world I completely made up, where individuals such as these, as well as homosexuals and other expressions, can exist without the horrible, violent backlash like in modern society.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jean and Marco.

Before early summer bloomed into colorful fall, before Eren ever hinted at being homesick, before the pair traveled such a way to the Aleutsch territory, only to realize that their beloved friends were nowhere to be found, Jean saw _him._

 

The day held little promise, it was uninspiring and as mundane as Jean believed most days to be within the quiet encampment nestled within the tall pines. He knew that due to the changing seasons the yearly trading would ensue, every other year members of his tribe, but not himself, would make the long and taxing journey to the territory of their sister tribe. This year, however, was one in which the Escót came from their warm lands to the fairer South, considerably closer to the frosty Northern territories. With everyone on their toes for the initial arrival of the southerners, Jean preoccupied himself with his day-to-day tasks, paying no mind to the change in scenery the others would bring. Jean went into the thicket to gather whatever wild berries were growing in season, gathering medicinal herbs, and of course the pine cones that fell from the trees surrounding them. On certain days Reiner would join him, when there were no expeditions planned for a hunt, when his strength wasn’t needed by his many admirers.

 

On this particular day, where Reiner dawned his own basket to collect reeds needed for basketry and to make cordage for a number of purposes, the boys both heard the sounds coming from the camp only a few yards away. Jean knew the sounds from his childhood, the traders had arrived, with their companion dogs barking from excitement, from children running around the grounds, from friends being reunited after long. Jean told Reiner to finish his last handful, both boys gathering their bundles and baskets to deposit temporarily at the edge of the camp. He knew upon the arrival of the travelers that it was customary to greet them immediately; too many scolding’s from his mother had offered him no alternative to his aloof attitude.

 

He motioned Reiner along until they walked a short way away from the cluster of tents at the border, he stood with his other tribal members as the long line of Escót traders walked past him, some familiar, others still acknowledging his manners by a shake of the head. He noticed stares lingering on the blond beside him, a stranger to everyone but his own clan that considered him a beloved individual at this point. Reiner paid the looks no attention, offering a small smile to all that passed him. In any other instance Jean would have rolled his eyes at Reiner’s mission to please all his encounters, Jean already feeling drained from his own halfhearted display.

 

Somewhere between the beginning and the end, when faces seemed to blend into one, when Jean’s mind began to drift to the tiredness in his eyes, to the visions he’s had where he’s on horseback, he sees a splash of freckles against tanned skin. His eyes snap to attention, lingering on the oval face of a boy, taller and broader than he, hair dark, coming just past his ears, eyes warm and brown, with more depth and expression he ever thought imaginable in a murky color. The stranger smiles at him and it does nothing to dull the quickening heartbeat in Jean’s chest, if anything, it increases to an alarming rate. Those brown eyes look at Jean for a moment longer and Jean suddenly has the unshakable urge to want to follow them. In an instant, that’s _all_ it must have been, the stranger is gone, Jean watching as his back shifts as he walks, his figure disappearing within his other clan members.

 

When Jean looks back on it, the boy had arrived so quietly, like the calm waters of a lake brushing against the shore, and all too quickly, far too quickly, Jean realized he wanted to drown with those sweet, gentle hands pulling him deeper into the depth.

 

\---

 

Jean could never forget the first vision he ever saw, it came for an instant within his sleep when he was young, and it had haunted him for days. The sheer introduction to such a tangible, clear world seemed like a miracle to him at the beginning, an escape from all the details and activities he was familiar with. It almost felt like home, however, the trees were larger and looming, the valleys even more vast, the skies stretching endlessly, painted with exquisite, heavenly colors. So distracted with the beauty he was surrounded by he never saw the giant that had emerged from the trees, the same one that had been watching him intently, his movements quick, footsteps sounding like thunder the closer it charged toward Jean. In the second the figure registered into his vision, to the second his head had turned fully to take in the magnitude of its size, it was nearly in front of him. He was terrified, felt so small and helpless, he thought his heart would burst from how quickly it was thumping in his chest.

 

Seconds later, he awoke suddenly, bathed in sweat, panting and frantically touching his arms, face, his legs, registering his own reality, confirming his own existence. It was a terrible ordeal for anyone to witness, but he was so young, too afraid to describe this world to his mother, to anyone else. He remembered that he couldn’t fall asleep again, not after his heart had calmed and he no longer felt overheated from fear, all he could do was cry as silently as possible, surrounded by the others within his tent. With the morning light he felt relief, busying himself with work in order to distract his mind from his night terrors. Each night he wondered if it would happen once again, if he would relieve such an awful dream, the thought of it never far from his mind. But he didn’t suffer in silence for too long.

 

Eren, older than he by only a few years, was quick to tell Jean about the own developments within his life. For as long as Jean had known him Eren was always quick to talk, unable to keep a secret, and challenged anyone that looked at him in a particular way. Without any repercussions he told Jean about this other world he had somehow found, the superiority he felt because of it radiating off of him, making Jean positively enraged by Eren’s own pompous attitude. But as Eren began to describe the world, it was strikingly familiar, so much so that Jean could not ignore Eren’s words as dutifully as he always did. He was entranced by Eren’s descriptions, seemingly only just coming to fruition, calm, peaceful, beautiful, a stark contrast to the horror Jean had seen. He wanted to ask the older boy if he had seen anything else, those monsters that hid in the forest, so menacing that Jean believed them to be lurking within their own woods he had run in only weeks ago so carelessly.

 

But before Jean could muster the courage to ask, Eren spoke again, “Those stories that they always talk about, they’re talking about what I see. _Qual’a’tao_ , that’s what I am.”

 

And Jean realized, that was what he was as well. Those stories that he heard, the ones repeated and cherished during night fires only once every few months, they appeared to have truth after all. They had never made much sense to him, talking of another world, of stars and souls and gentle hands and hearts. He always believed them to be tales only adults understood. All he craved for in his young age was a full belly, time alone to wander the woods, and the warmth of his mother’s arms when he made mistakes the elders would scold him for. He never understood the yearning for comfort and validation, lest it be from his own clan. What else was there?

 

Eren seemed to know, it appeared that he knew from the beginning. As brash as his attitude came across, Jean knew the green eyed boy was restlessly inquisitive, about the legends, about stories from other territories, about medicinal herbs, hunting, tool making. Eren wanted to learn as much he could from anyone who would teach him. His persistence and eagerness often got the best of the elders, scolding him, telling him to learn his place, but those words never shook Eren’s spirit, in fact they fed it.

 

It should have come as no surprise when only days after telling Jean of the visions he saw, Eren announced it to the tribe.

 

\---

 

Jean could never pinpoint a memory that did not involve Eren, he could never remember a time where he hadn’t know of his clans member, clashing personalities from the very beginning. Eren was one of the few children who was solely looked after by his mother, his father having abandoned his family and his tribe. No one spoke of Eren’s father, it was taboo to mentioned deserters, but Jean’s mother would often remind him not test Eren’s limits with his own actions, _for all he says he has no bite, but do not give him a reason to fight_ , she would say. But for all her warnings, he simply could not help challenging the boy’s wavering character. There was a time when their fights would be infamous, when Jean himself was at his limit with the boy, grasping at his hair while the other grabbed at his skin with a feral look in his eye, Jean wondering for a blinding second how his life had gotten to such a point.

 

He knew, in fact, that it had always been there. A small, seedling of jealousy had always existed inside of himself whenever he would so much as glance at the dark haired boy. Eren had a storm inside himself if Jean had ever seen one capable of brewing in an individual, try as he might, he knew he would never understand Eren, but he was fascinated by him. He could never deny that fact, for as he grew older, he would find his eyes lingering on his finer jaw line, on his dark, long hair, vision frozen on his beautiful, jeweled eyes. Eren’s energy was voracious, solidifying him as a hunter for their tribe, his limbs becoming more defined with the activity, catching the light within the sun, Jean wondering, if he could only touch them, if they felt any different from his own.

 

With Eren’s announcement, little changed within their clan, lest for Eren’s position. Following his reveal, he was quickly escorted to the elder’s tents, Jean not seeing his friend until days later. For those days he wondered if Eren was being subjected to rituals or a type of private, ceremonious initiation. His young mind running wild, his anxieties even seeping into his dreams where he saw blades cut into Eren’s skin, marking him with some intricate design that was only clouded over by droplets of blood pluming to the surface of his severed skin. It felt as though no one else worried of Eren’s whereabouts, his own mother continuing on as usual with her bright smile and warm eyes, Jean perhaps being the only one to feel the extent of his absence.

 

Yet when he came forth again, Jean could not find a scar or a bruise on his brown skin, rather a bubbling confidence that consumed his presence, a sight he had not seen before. Eren smiled proudly, walking with grace and determination, there was an ease about him Jean could not identify, as if all his troubles had simply faded away from the stern expression he always wore, from his life entirely. By some naïve notion Jean believed Eren would tell him about those days he was hidden away, but he did not speak a word of it, the secrecy of those days sealed tight behind his lips. For all Eren was, he was not keen on confidentiality, the second Jean would tell him of a story, of gossip he heard from his mother, Eren would find someway to let those words spill within their tribe.

 

Jean waited, waited for a slipup Eren would be sure to deliver, just as he always did before. But nothing came, nothing was said nor uttered, Eren continued with his privileges as a hunter, moving about the camp as he wished, Jean watching him go. The small glimmer of hope Jean had, masked behind jealously, poor attitude, and scuffles between himself and the brunette, began to fade into something like resentment. He could only watch as Eren grew into his role, enamored with his newfound attention, Jean too stubborn to speak of his own realities.

 

But it wasn’t stubbornness, he would realize, it was fear that kept him silent as long as it did.

 

He was terrified to close his eyes. Terrified of those monsters, of his own powerlessness against it. He was terrified to die, terrified of the night, of those visions too powerful to ignore, the ones that seeped into your mind in the bright of day and robbed you of your breath, of your vision, of every fiber of your reality.

 

He felt like a slave, he couldn’t understand how anyone could find any pride in what he was. He looked at Eren, always looked at him, and wondered where his gratification stemmed from, how he could even begin to feel an ounce of it.

 

 _Help me_ , he wanted to scream.

 

He never did.

\---

 

Somehow, as they grew older, their lives became intertwined more completely. Jean notices this one day when he feels a strange pang of emptiness in his chest, realizing he has not spoken to Eren once that day, the lack of interaction particularly odd. As they grow, Eren’s visions only become more vivid, Jean only hearing the details of them when Eren is exceptionally loose lipped. He is never smug when he speaks of them, describes them in incredible detail, from the colors of the skies, to the greens of the forests, one would even believe the other world to be beautiful if not for the massacre, the complete filth and chaos, where the gust of wind can only dispel the stench of blood for a few seconds. Eren never talks about this, Jean wonders if perhaps his visions are not as macabre in themes as his own, or if Eren simply does not want him to know.

 

Yet, he sees it all the same. As he matures, the visions come less often, gradually loosening their grip on his conscious, robbing him less of his peace of mind, easing his anxieties slowly. But they do not become any less torturous in imagery, still he is haunted by those monsters, chased on foot or in the air, until his lungs feel as though they will burn a hole in his chest, when he feels as though he wants to rip the pulse out of his throat, each thump of it a reminder of the dreadful fear of his current reality. Each time he wakes from a particularly traumatic vision, he feels exhaustion seethe from every pore of his body, he simply lies awake for minutes, waiting for the shock to pass, for his breathing to steady without his personal regulation of it.

 

There are times when he feels wetness on his face, somewhere between his lucidity and his consciousness; he feels his throat tight and locked, cold streams of water leaking into his hair without any direction. When he wakes he feels the pools of tears lingering in his eyelashes, wiping them away furiously before the sounds of his rough, wet breathing wake those around him. It is during those moments, the private, silent, vulnerable moments that he won’t remember come daylight— that he wonders if he is the only one feeling pulled in so many directions that he wants to surrender to nothing, to only have those gentle hands from their tribal stories, the ones that are suppose to support and soothe, it’s all too painful to handle alone.

 

He thinks of Eren, imagines for only a second if his arms would provide any comfort.

\---

 

Nimble, slender fingers weave the dried reeds back in forth to create a water-tight design, he has only just begun the basket, but quickly he gets into the calming rhythm of the routine. His eyes become trained on the way his fingers move, the tips of them cold from the chilled water he continuously must splash on his work, the reeds cannot dry throughout the process or they may snap. He gets lost in his work, weaving cordage back and forth, but every few minutes he remembers he is not left to his devices as he typically is with a solitary task. He remembers Eren’s soft gaze as he watches Jean work, head cradled within his crossed arms, laying belly down on the soft ground. Jean is grateful for the task he has, it doesn’t permit his eyes to wander to Eren’s brown back, temptation to simply glance at the way the light paints shadows across the curves and definition of his tight, forming muscles.

 

Moments like these are rare between the two, where the simplicity of their comfort is not questioned, and never discussed. It is obvious to both only during the silence, where neither speaks of their tribe, of Eren’s position, of Jean’s overbearing mother, where both are at complete ease to not have to fill the moments with any chatter. Their breathing even matching although neither notices this detail.

 

Jean shifts uncomfortably, his back stretching all full attention, Eren watching as the pale skin extends across each bone in his ribcage, the beginning of the basket still nestled within his crossed legs. They must have been within their positions for hours it feels like, but Eren is feeling particularly lethargic today, still not wanting to move from his location on the ground. Jean grumbles, as he usually does, his back still straining from his terrible posture, and falls back to the ground, an arm splayed against his eyes to shield the sunlight. Eren can’t help how his curious eyes rove over Jean’s body, sometimes wondering if the ashen blond does these displays on purpose. It feels as though it has been far too long since they have been close, fine hairs beginning to gather around Jean’s bellybutton.

 

“Have you,” Jean begins, breaking Eren’s gaze, instantly fearful that he will be scolded by the younger boy, “-seen anything? Lately,” he clarifies in a tone that is both shy and controlled.

 

Jean has never asked him about his visions outright, possibly one of the only clan members who hasn’t. He always liked that aspect of their friendship, where he could provide details of his visions when he wanted, Jean listening to him silently, almost appearing bored if it were not for the way his eyes would snap to Eren’s the second he stopped speaking. Eren could forget when he was with Jean if wanted, and many times he did, Jean would treat him no differently, offering no advice and no pampering. Perhaps his curiosity finally had gotten the best of him, and within the comfort of their drawn out hours, Eren couldn’t muster a teasing comment.

 

“I haven’t been sleeping very well,” Jean is surprised to hear from the boy, “they come in pieces sometimes. But, nothing from the usual.”

 

Jean wants to know more, but he is already cursing himself for asking Eren anything in the first place. The question slipped from his mind, far too relaxed within the tranquil presence, to fear gripping him like ice until he heard Eren’s deepening voice begin to answer. Yet, his answer offers nothing that he had not known before from his careful speculation. Eren looks tired more often than not, faint circles surrounding his emerald eyes, not as dark as the ones Jean has. His own visions are often only flashes now, of forests, of being on horseback, on standing on the branches of impossibly thick trees.

 

_Nothing from the usual._

\---

 

Days as peaceful as those with Eren, where hours escape them both, are lost one day to the next. All too quickly they both fall back into similar patterns of both exclusion and inclusion, Eren in the comforts of his hunting circle, Jean within the artisans with meek personalities and creative minds. The veil of monotonous routine offers a haven for both, a progression of stability where the tasks have objectives and outcomes, where they can occupy their minds nearly enough to only think of the other world sparingly.

 

But as both boys continue to grow Jean learns of small details that go beyond their cautious routines. In his fifteenth seasoned year, Jean’s voice begins to express itself deeper, a realization his mother practically squeaks at, and as Eren begins to become more defined in face and strength, Jean surpassing him in height by a smug inch.

 

Yet, perhaps the most harmless details were the ones no one questioned, the ones no one boasted about until they believed them to bother their own lives directly. What a selfish, utterly egotistic thought that was, because they did not understand, no one could hope to understand based off of stories alone.

 

Jean somehow wished he could be just a blind as the rest, only taking Eren’s outbursts as nothing more than his shaky temperament. But he knew Eren too well for that, had known him for years to only see his tired eyes and quick remarks for only surface qualities. He was suffering, not as quietly as Jean, but perhaps more, too much that he was unable to control it anymore. The realization should have pleased Jean in some terrible, selfish way, and he would have been no different from the rest of their tribe. It was not until Eren screamed at him, only inches away from his face, skin blazing so hot that Jean could feel it radiating off his brown skin, -- he saw the sudden glint in his wonderfully green eyes, he saw his face fall for only a small break before he stormed off to the brush.

 

Hours passed before Eren returned, eyes red and irritated, nose stained scarlet, hands and arms scratched and bleeding. Jean pretended to not see him as he talked to his tent, averting his gaze back to the work in his hands. Somehow Jean knew this was only the beginning, he had been resting against the trunk of a tree, closest to the forest during Eren’s absence. As much as he hoped to ignore them, he heard his screams, broken and pleading, just low enough to escape the ears of the rest who wouldn’t listen to anything above the idle chatter, the sounds of children, of dogs.

 

Jean would never forget them, they were so clear and debilitating, almost identical to those within his own visions.

\---

 

The sprouting distance between Eren and his tribe only grows over the months, Jean watches the progression for himself, how his clan members become wary whenever Eren is near, how his mother looks at him with a careful gaze, even Jean finding himself speaking to the boy less and less, not by his own wishes, simply because Eren approaches him sparingly. It is both saddening and remorseful to watch, because Jean wants to help, wants to comfort Eren in some way, but he is still too afraid to admit to his own reality, will I end up like him?

 

Yet often times it feels as though Jean is the only person Eren can turn to, watching him make crafts is one of the only instances of peace that is tangible. Jean still does not ask questions, does not shy away from him when he is near, does not flinch when he raises his voice to spew nonsense. He simply listens in the beginning, nodding a few times in solidarity, but keeps his eyes cast down, either to avoid Eren’s gaze or to focus on his crafts. Eren prefers it that way, tired of eyes following him when he turns his back, but even Jean’s evasive gaze it too much to be without.

 

“No one can even look at me anymore, not even you—Why won’t you fucking look at me!”

 

Tremors gently rock Jean’s limbs, Eren’s tone a sound Jean has never heard. His gaze is challenging, eyes glossy, nostrils flaring. Jean had never been afraid of Eren before this moment, he doesn’t know what to do, what to say.

 

“You even look at me like everyone else, afraid I’ll do something to you, like I’d hurt you. How long before you cast me away like everyone else?”

 

“Shut up,” Jean warns.

 

“And why should I,” Eren comes closer, “the elders always wanted me to talk. They wanted to know everything until it wasn’t convenient anymore—until they couldn’t interpret them anymore. You know what they ask me?” he continues to come closer, “they want to know why I can’t control myself. They ask me if it’s the visions and I don’t know, they don’t believe me. They can’t explain it, and just how do they expect _me_ to? I don’t—“ he’s so close now, Jean can see his lip quivering, he can almost forget how quickly his own pulse is going, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he whispers.

 

_What’s wrong with both of us?_

 

It only takes a small push for Eren to feel trembling hands wrap around his chest, ones he never expected to be in, but he takes the comfort, too tried to even fight anymore. They won’t speak of this again, neither boys will ever mention the few moments where Eren’s resolve finally breaks for the first time of many, and Jean tries with awkward, soothing fingers to keep him together just this once.

\---

 

As luck would have it, it is not until Jean begins to see the extent of Eren’s carefully hidden episodes that he finally achieves a type of clarity for his own plagues. Relief comes in the form of another vision, it begins as the previous ones have, an aching anxiety blooming in Jean’s stomach as he stands atop of a narrow walkway, but its purpose is anything but simple. It’s a wall, thick and imposing, as he looks down in one direction he sees the monsters clawing for purchase, some smiling, others letting their mouths hang open as if they are completely void of any reflex at all. When Jean looks to the other side he sees complete anarchy of a different sort, buildings crumbling, devastation that evokes screams and pleads for help, the familiar stench of blood and decay. No matter where he turns he is damned by the situation, utterly alone, fear making his knees tremble, wondering what would happen if he were to simply give into his fears, to fall into the awaiting mouth of one of those monsters below.

 

He chooses life, somehow the terror of his life being taken in this world is almost as powerful if he were to be back with his tribe. He wouldn’t know how to handle the realization of what it is like to die, only to live again with the knowledge. He shoots his gear into the direction of the nearest building, landing on the rooftop with shaky footing. He keeps this routine, going from building to building, surveying the destruction for only a few seconds before he relocates. He feels safest this way, forgetting that churning in his stomach when he is in the air.

 

He lands roughly at the next stop, brick tiles littered on a roof that is just barely intact on one side. Against his better judgment he takes a few steps to where the tiles have broken to create a gaping, black hole below. He cranes his head over and down just the slightest, seeing rubble and dust, and before he can stare any longer and the bloodied feet that are just under a crushing boulder, he feels sudden wind whip across his face. Black looming eyes look at him, Jean would even think they were curious, he sees the movement of a hand from the corner of his eye and is quick to react.

 

The seconds are swift in time, yet feel so torturously slow, every emotion, every thought comes in waves. He is on a rooftop, running on the ground to only fly into the air at the next opportunity. He feels those cold eyes follow him, he can feel the vibration of their thundering footsteps never cease in their chase, he turns to see the proximity of their distance, only to meet those eyes again with intimate closeness. Another few careful steps, his maneuver gear propelling him sideways and over, back and forward to cut away at the nape of the neck. The movement is so fluid and clean and he feels himself fall with the body, steam beginning to cloud his vision before he can even process just what he had done.

 

When he wakes, it is peaceful and sluggish, his limbs don’t feel rigid with stress, he doesn’t wonder where he is, or even forgets who he is for a blinking second. He remembers it all with perfect clarity as if it were a memory, vivid and all encompassing.

 

_I killed it._

 

_I killed (my worst nightmare)._

 

_I was brave._

 

He finds Eren at first light, the older boy turning to him with an expression that is in better spirits than the past few days.

 

“What happened to you? Grow some more and came to rub it in?”

 

Jean shakes his head, a smile creeping on his face. He looks at Eren, his amusement beginning to fall slowly from his appearance, standing straighter, brow furrowing, eyes direct.

 

“I have to tell you something,” Jean begins, dread, sticky and thick starts to puddle in Eren’s chest before he even continues.

 

Yet, of everything Jean could have told him in that moment, any secret he had been hiding from him, or any mal incident against him, nothing could have prepared Eren for the complete betrayal he felt as Jean explained the complete vigor of his dream, rather his vision. Eren watched as his lips moved, how his eyes crinkled, how he smiled, he heard each word coming from Jean’s lips, but his own presence felt so far away from that moment. He suddenly felt cold, void of any feeling, any thoughts, he could nearly feel his blood slow in his veins, the steady beat of his own heart somehow so prominent to him.

 

He barely registered when Jean had stopped speaking, calling his name to get his attention. But Eren could only think of all those times he had told Jean of his visions, how he listened but offered nothing in return when he could have, should have. He had said nothing when Eren had first told him, face did nothing to mask surprise nor relief. He never chose to confide in him, never trusted him enough to know such a harboring secret. How long had Jean been like this, been just like him?

 

“How long?” Eren asked, his voice sounding rough to his ears.

 

Jean recoiled, “How long what?”

 

“How long have you been keeping this from me?”

 

Eren sees Jean’s lips turn in a snarl, eyes growing wider, “I’ve been keeping this from everyone, did you hear anything I just said?”

 

Jean watched as Eren steps closer, “How couldn’t I, you practically cornered me into telling me your little confession.”

 

Jean feels himself step closer, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Shouldn’t you be happy?”

 

“WHAT COULD I POSSIBLY BE HAPPY ABOUT? LYING TO ME FOR YEARS?”

 

“I WAS TOO SCARED TO TELL YOU. WHY DO YOU HAVE TO MAKE EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU?”

 

He feels Eren’s hands, boiling hot on his bare chest as they shove him to the ground. His limbs are quick to react, just like in his vision, he is on the ground one second, throwing Eren’s back against the tree the next. He waits for the feeling of his palms, against his cheek, against his throat, for any inkling of pain. But it never comes, Eren doesn’t even look up.

 

“You think you’re the only one who was scared?” Eren asks him, but Jean knows that just by the tone of his voice, he shouldn’t answer.

 

“You fucking _coward_ ,” Eren’s voice drips with venom, and it pains Jean to think that possibly he deserves it.

\---

 

It feels like an exorbitant amount of time before the rage seems to dissipate like a bad taste from his mouth. Jean finds that he does not see the green eyed boy for a few days, plainly ignoring him, which to his credit is not a chore. Jean remains rooted to his familiar spot close to the tree by his shared tent, continuing with the craft at his attention, moving only when called. Eren does not pass by him as per usual, and after sometime Jean can’t find it in his heart to blame him.

 

Jean can understand perfectly just why Eren was so taken aback by his vignette, it was rushed in execution, Jean barely able to contain himself by the sheer triumphant memory of it, but Eren could not see it such a way. And how could he? Jean had been so careful to conceal himself throughout the years, no matter how many times he wanted to tell Eren, and by God how he had wanted to tell him, he always held himself back. How cruel that must have seemed to Eren, years as an idle listener to his fantastical stories, when all along Jean has been going through the same motions, knowing full well how terrifying those visions were, no matter the brave face Eren sported as he recounted only the beauty of them. All those years he could have helped, Eren knew this, if not by words or actions, but by the plain fact that Jean shared his struggle, different of course, but still very much the same.

 

It was the sole sobering thought that took days to reach, yet as admirable as it was, it was only the first timid step Jean could take without the presence of another. During the hours where his fingers meticulously worked, he thought of ways in which to approach his oldest friend once again. They had had their fair share of arguments throughout the past, always choosing to forget the importance of them, sacrificing differences for friendship. But Jean knew he was no fool, this was unlike any argument between the two, no quick line could work on Eren for his offense. Jean could not fashion a gift for him as he had the previous time, braiding cordage into matching accessories, Eren choosing to wear them around his biceps like the other hunters. Jean thought for hours, deciding his best option was to let Eren be for now.

 

He didn’t seem to wait long, activities within their tribe putting their separation to a close, Jean somehow believing Eren would look different after days of not seeing his familiar face. It was oddly pleasant seeing the scowl on his tanned features, eyes diverting into every which direction to avoid Jean’s, choosing to take a position further away from the gangly boy. But their eyes met too many times to count, arms somehow brushing up against each other throughout the day, Eren huffing his annoyance but not making much of an effort to move away.

 

At a moment when they find themselves retreated far enough from the tribe, Eren finally speaks.

 

“You know what you look like?”

 

Jean can’t hold back the snort that erupts from his nose, the last of the tension between them running thin.

 

“Those horses in the other world,” Eren finishes, dodging the swinging fist that tries to connect to his side.

\---

 

Routines are an interesting thing for Jean, new ones coming into place as the seasons change, as the weather changes, as he changes. He tells the elders of his visions, with Eren by his side, and he remembers those days in which Eren disappeared following his reveal, he wonders if any of his anxieties will come to life for himself. But there is no ritual, no ceremonial acts unknown to him, he simply sits in the elder’s tent, answering their questions as they are asked of him. They simply want to know how long he has had his visions, what he sees, how he feels, he is prayed upon for the return of his soul, sage is burned in the quarters and the smoke surrounds him for purification. Over the course of those days his eyes find Eren’s across the small distance, unsure of how to answer the elder’s questions, his own responses, and Eren simply gives an encouraging nod, and Jean is thankful for the support of his oldest friend.

 

Jean is revealed to the tribe in humble fashion, members offering the sacred greeting, his own mother running to his side to sob into his shoulder with happiness. He lets her ruffle his hair as he pats her back in comfort. Once the initial shock fades, routines return to normal, lest for Jean going to the elders following each vision, sometimes finding Eren already speaking in their dark quarters, sometimes not.

 

As the boys continue to grow out of adolescence, another routine begins for Jean. Once his limbs stop growing and weight catches up with his sickly, lanky body, Eren invites Jean to accompany him on hunting excursions.

 

“Someone has to take my place if I ever leave,” Eren explains, and Jean isn’t sure just where Eren plans to go.

 

Jean begins as Eren’s shadow, watching his movements with sharp attention, learning how to walk without making a sound, how to slow your breathing, how to take in all your surroundings with careful detail. Eren often loses his patience with Jean’s actions, the rest of the party leaving them to bicker in the thicket. But gradually, Jean comes into his own, making his own slingshot, carrying trusted, rounded rocks whenever he is called. Eren notes the way Jean’s muscles begin to become just shy of being defined with the added exercise.

 

Eren’s outbursts continue, although Eren does his best to hide them from others, Jean has found. Sometimes Eren seeks out Jean specifically, testing the patience of their friendship with cruel words, and other times Jean can vaguely hear the screams deep in the forest. Jean sees Eren’s scabbed hands when they hunt, seeing indentations from rows of teeth having bitten deep into his brown skin, he never mentions it when Eren is in better spirits, and Eren pretends he doesn’t feel Jean’s eyes on him. Those brief seconds when he catches Jean’s expression as his eyes shift over his own healing hands and arms, he feels himself only moments away from telling Jean all that plagues him. But he can never tell him, he never shows him the extent of what his visions do to him emotionally, how they traumatize him into fits of sobbing and attacks. He’ll never allow his friend to see him so vulnerable, not because he doesn’t trust him, but so he is no longer afraid of his own visions that scared him so fully as to keep them a secret from Eren for years.

 

Eren can’t let Jean revert back to his fear, if that means he has to look after himself, well, it is not anything he hasn’t done before.

 

But there are moments of peace, longer than he’s ever experienced before. Sometimes he doesn’t believe it’s all too bad when he can simply lay down for a few hours, listening to the steady commotion of the tribe, or watching Jean work his fingers to create something as beautiful as the baskets he’s known for, or lay within his own tent with the taller boy while his mother is visiting some member or another. It’s raining heavily outside, the way it does more often than not in their territory, the rain keeping everything beautiful and lush and so very green.

 

Both boys lay on their stomachs, the furred blanket below them keeping their bare bellies warm, both have their heads cushioned in the space between their crossed arms. They have their faces turned to each other, although they look at nothing in particular. It is only when Jean is close to Eren like this that he wonders why the brunette is always so warm, no matter the season or the temperature outside, he wonders if he’s always been that way.

 

“Do you remember when you said you would leave one day?” Jean asks, almost shy, Eren’s eyes direct themselves to his own in a second.

 

“Why are you always so nervous when you ask me something?” Eren mumbles into his arm.

 

“Because you have a terrible attitude, why else?” Jean retorts back, and he sees the small inklings of a smile under the smushed cheek against Eren’s arm.

 

“Yeah, I remember,” Eren sighs, drawing up onto his forearms, peering over at Jean through his mess of dark hair, “Why are you asking all of a sudden?” he says more sincerely.

 

“I was just wondering what you meant? I mean—why’d you say it in the first place?”

 

Jean watches Eren’s profile, how his mouth scrunches up the way when he’s thinking hard, he sees the full sets of eyelashes rise up and down accordingly as his eyes linger over different parts of the tent, he waits for a response.

 

“Don’t you ever . . . “ Eren begins, losing his voice in an afterthought, he sighs heavily, “just _feel_ like you’re being pulled somewhere else?”

 

Jean lets Eren’s words carry, the silence between them only subdued by the steady rain outside. Eren looks over at him once again, as if confirming that Jean had heard him, his eyes are soft awaiting his reply.

 

“Yeah,” Jean confesses, lifting his head a bit to speak clearly, he’s felt that strange detachment to his own life for some time. It’s difficult to explain, he could never get the words quite right to ask Eren about it, wondering if perhaps he alone felt that tug for another place, a change of scenery that went even deeper than sheer exploration. Eren had had a taste of it only a year or two before, traveling to the southern territories on an excursion, Jean refusing to go out of a fear for the long journey, although he did not tell Eren that. He regretted it more as time passed, that pulling in his chest only growing stronger in sensation.

 

“When are you leaving?” Jean asks after sometime, Eren already back in his original position.

 

“When it feels right,” he says softly and when Jean looks back at him again, truthfully to hound him by how romantic he must have thought he sounded, the boy is asleep.

 

Days later a foreigner reaches their camp, eyes nearly yellow in hue, hair as bright as the sun, skin paler than tones Jean is use to seeing. His presence alone is enough of a confirmation that Jean’s temporary routine will change once again, with the arrival of a new friend, and the eventual parting of another.

\---

  
Reiner was from the north, from a territory close to the coast that had winters milder than those of their sister tribe, however he still came from a cold climate, that much was clear by just how white his skin contrasted against those from Jean’s own tribe. It had been quite sometime since a Northerner had come to the southern territories, but not uncommon, as many had over generations, creating all the possibilities and features Jean was accustomed to among his eclectic clan. Eren’s own jade eyes were a relative to the blue eyes that were famous among northern tribes. The story being that his father had relatives from the north, although the true history of their family lost with his abandonment. Yet Reiner’s eyes were neither blue nor anything similar, countering many of the stories Jean had heard of those territories, although he did not mention it.

 

A traveler from origins so far from their settlement caused nothing short of a commotion among the tribe, seemingly every elder, man, woman, and child wanting to speak to Reiner. Jean noted how he took it all in stride, answering relentless, tried questions and never growing blue in the face because of it. He was welcomed with open arms, a night fire taking place for him to speak formally of his status and his travels. Somehow Eren had been able to get a word in with him hours before, dragging Jean along. They learned Reiner was a qual’a’tao, identical to themselves, but hearing it with all his clans members surrounding them, Reiner describing his own territory, his stays with his sister tribe, all in his careful, clear words was nothing but surreal. When Jean looked over to Eren sitting beside him he saw his expression, attention dripping from every word Reiner’s rough, deep voice spoke into the warm night.

 

Reiner stayed in a tent that had room, and without question or instruction, he easily fit into the habitual craze of the Aleutsch. He hunted with Eren, Jean coming along every now and again, but the trio spoke openly during the days they could rest easy, chores and preparations already finished for the day. Here the two could learn of the northerner more, without the formalities of night fires and the overbearing presence of the elders, Jean could see the way Reiner would let his body relax when he spoke of little, intimate details of his home, of others he knew of and had met. Jean would indulge him, his own fascination getting the better of him at hearing of the bitter winters, the sea, the black sands, of his search for something. Yet it seemed as though all those incredible details escaped Eren, acknowledging them as they came, but ultimately being completely hung up once Reiner spoke of his time with his sister tribe.

 

Jean was shocked to know Reiner had met Armin at a young age, the two seemingly having a friendship throughout the years. Reiner spoke of Armin in such a cherished, but distant tone that Jean could sense the bearings of a relationship Reiner tried to desperately subdue. But Jean could note the softness in his expression as he spoke, only offering humdrum details of the nemi-vökva, the secrecy Reiner is holding onto is plain. It escapes Eren, however, always wanting to know more, and Jean has to strike him in the arm to keep him in place. But that does little to settle him, when the two are walking in front of him in a hunting excursion, Jean can hear in whispered tones how Eren continues to ask about Armin, Jean can see the way Reiner’s fingers grip tighter around his knife.

 

A day comes in which the trio are simply sitting about and Eren announces he will travel north, surprising Reiner fully, only surprising Jean the slightest bit. Reiner voices his concern for Eren’s well being on such a potentially dangerous journey, if he under-calculates his travel time he could find himself in a severe, early winter storm, without food, with dwindling energy, he could perish without a soul knowing. Eren is headstrong, but he understands Reiner’s reasoning, Jean watches their exchanges, chiming in only when he knows Eren needs to be reminded how much of a desperate spirit he is for both adventure and danger. But there’s a flicker of tension within the conversation, both boys treading some unseen, yet unsubtle line between permission and acceptance. Reiner tells Eren to wait until the winter passes, he does.

 

Eren asks Jean if he would consider traveling with him, but Jean knows that Eren is on his own journey to a destiny all his own. Jean couldn’t impose, maybe he’s still too fearful to leave the familiarity of his tribe. But Eren makes no joke about his decline, and when Eren is sure there is enough warmth in the air, he is gone.

 

There’s an emptiness Jean had never felt before when he wakes and realizes he can no longer search for Eren to discuss a vision, not even seek his quiet company as he works on a new craft. But he rises, readies himself for the day and finds Reiner just the same, they head into the forest without a word, Jean hopes he can evoke his gratitude by the soft smile he offers his new friend.

 

Reiner, still feeling fairly new to the tribe, to its various relationships, all interwoven in anecdotal degrees and intensities, lets Jean mourn his loss in silence, and they trek further into the thicket, only the crunching of earth under their feet keeping them synchronized.

\---

 

Minutes feel like hours, and hours eternities as Jean waits for the dust and commotion to settle within his territory, the Escót visitors must set up their camp, feed their young, tend to their companion dogs, tend to themselves after such a dreadfully long journey. All Jean can do is pace behind his tent, his mind wild with the memory of that boy, a memory so preciously young and gentle, but his heart is still racing from it, his hands shaking in their clutches. That pull that Eren had described, one Jean had felt stronger than others in certain instances, when he spoke of visions with Eren, when he had crossed paths with Reiner, he feels it again with this boy. At least, that’s what he believes, his emotions are a tangle of sensations and he can’t decipher one from the other, he could be confusing himself just the same, but he thinks of those warm, bark colored eyes and he feels silly, he doesn’t even know his _name_.

 

When his nerves have finally gotten the better of him, he slumps himself against a tree, trying to lose himself in the intricacies of his new basket, far from complete, and Reiner joins him only a short time latter, the beginnings of a pipe in one hand, his knife in another. In the fuss of it all Jean had forgotten about Reiner, after the mysterious boy had simply looked in Jean’s direction, he had fled, leaving Reiner without direction as to what to do with the introduction of their new guests. There weren’t many places to look for Jean, lest for the vastness of the forest, but he was relieved to find him with an angry, concentrated look as he had the beginnings of a basket in his lap.

 

“Shouldn’t we have waited to greet everyone?” Reiner asks, genuinely curious if both boys leaving the intersession of welcoming their guests will make them appear anything less than friendly.

 

Reiner sees Jean shrug, “Probably,” is all he offers.

 

They don’t speak again, with Jean desperately attempting to concentrate on his craft, he loses himself in it somewhere along the way, the adjacent sound of Reiner running his knife along fine slivers of wood dulling the voices and noises closer than he cares to remember. After sometime has passed, when the sun is not shining as blindly bright above them, Jean announces that he has to greet some of the more familiar visitors, ones that remember his mother more than himself, but ones he still should exchange pleasantries with for good measure. Reiner nods with acknowledgement, telling Jean he’ll remain where he is for a while longer, the progress in his pipe already evident, and Jean suspects it has more to do with his reluctance to explain his foreign presence among a tribe that is not his own.

 

Regardless, Jean rises, leaving the progress of his basket in his abandoned tent, not knowing which particular direction to take. He had seen the procession of the group walking towards the ends of the camp, where existing tents are more sparsely laid out, right before the flat grassland gave way to the forest. It had been a few hours since the Escót’s arrival, the calm had returned to the camp, with their visitors settled in, sounds were quieter, but there was still that crackle of excitement. Jean felt it for differing reasons, it was rushing in his veins as he walked to the end of the camp, eyes of visitors falling on his for only seconds before he passed on. It appeared as though he could not find any familiar faces within the bunch, the ones he knows only due to having seen them a few times over his seasoned years. He still continues on.

 

The visitors have already begun to set out their trade goods in front of their newly erected tents, some elders proudly sitting next to their baskets, pots of all sizes, and various accessories made of the seashells from their homeland. The goods are displayed above intricately woven mats, and Jean is sure that the traders would even trade those to the right customer. Jean takes his time walking among the visitors, many calling him over for the brief second he had looked upon their displays, and he indulges them, even going as far as inspecting shell jewelry he believes his mother might like. The traders are jubilant, hearty people that enjoy a good conversation, warm, dark skin and darker hair to match.

 

Jean sees a display of baskets, forgetting himself completely as he immerses himself in the beauty of the Escót goods, alternating sizes and widths, for cooking, for sorting, for washing and preparing. They have a light color, with dyed reeds weaving into patterns of snakes, and geometrical designs, they’re breathtaking in their attention to detail. Jean walks closer to the display, a flash of dark, unruly hair grabbing his attention.

 

“They’re pretty, huh?” a little boys asks, one tooth missing in his smile.

 

“They’re really pretty,” Jean agrees, crouching down to get a better look, and to level himself off with the boy, “Did you make them?”

 

The boy blows a raspberry, “No, Momma did! Momma says I can’t touch them because I’ll break them, but if I trade one she says I can touch them, but _carefully_ ,” his voice gets quieter as he drowns out the last word, almost as if it were a secret.

 

“I make baskets too,” Jean offers, seeing the little nose of the boys scrunch up in either scrutiny or disbelief.

 

“They’re prolly’ not as good as Momma’s,” he narrows his brown eyes, pouting, and Jean laughs through his nose, he may have just insulted the boy on a deeper level by his attempt at conversation.

 

“Naran, you won’t trade anything with that attitude,” a voice says, Jean sees feet emerge from the tent, a flap held open as a figure appears from the darkness inside. He lets the flap fall from his loose grip, looking at the boy before his eyes flicker to Jean’s stunned expression.

 

All he can feel is the way heat pools into every crevice of his face, his legs suddenly feeling like tree sap, all they want to do is ooze into the ground. He is cursing himself, a million times in his head, but he can’t seem to stop gawking at the stranger, the very one he had seen only hours before. He smiles at Jean again, just as he had done before, but unlike the little boy’s smile it mirrors, it is complete.

 

“You make baskets as well?” the stranger asks, Jean rises to his feet immediately, seeing those big, brown eyes grow in surprise at the sudden movement, pink lips breaking into a smile once again.

 

“Yes,” Jean answers, nods for further clarification, face burning even more. He swallows.

 

“Can’t imagine you’re interested in trading for one?” the stranger continues.

 

“No—I mean, I have ones like these, well, not like _these_ specifically—I can’t make them, well, no, I can _make_ them, but,” he stops himself, completely mortified as he searches for the words, “They’re beautiful,” he concludes in defeat.

 

“Pretty,” the little voice chirps, correcting Jean, his body having shifted to the stranger’s side, grasping onto his arm with both hands.

 

“Two different words can mean the same thing,” the strangers tells him softly, looking down at him as he wiggles the arm in the child’s grasp.

 

“Like the way names can?” he asks, “Like my name?”

 

“What does your name mean?” Jean asks, hoping to save face.

 

The boy slowly hides behind the stranger, until all Jean can see are his tanned, little hands still clutching the arm for comfort. The stranger cranes his neck back to peer at the boy, Jean watches as the skin across his throat stretches against the strain.

 

“Lunar eclipse,” the stranger says, his eyes finding Jean’s, “he was born on one a few years ago.”

 

“What’s your name?” Jean asks, the muscles in his body growing tight at his boldness.

 

He offers another smile, “Marco,” he says simply, “and this is Naran, my brother.”

 

Naran moves his head just the slightest to look at Jean and resumes his position, completely shielded by the barrier of his brother.

 

“You were acting so brave before,” Marco coos his brother, “I’m sorry,” he apologizes to Jean.

 

“I don’t mind,” Jean reassures him, “is it his first time in this territory?”

 

Marco nods his head, “Yes, his and mine, it’s his first time traveling as well.”

 

“Sure picked quite the journey as his first,” Jean remarks, the context of it sounding bitter the second it spills out of his mouth.

 

Marco laughs softly regardless, “He’s stubborn, simply wouldn’t let us leave him behind,” he explains.

 

Jean can see the way freckles are dusted across the plane of Marco’s rounded nose, splashing against the apples of his cheeks in more prominence, softly glowing in the light. At their close proximity Jean can see all the details he never had an opportunity to admire as Marco had passed him in the procession, like the way his hair curls just the slightest bit at the ends, how his dark eyelashes fan against his skin each time he blinks, how his eyes look like dark honey when the light catches them completely, how full and utterly pink his lips are. And his smile, so warm and inviting and genuine, it’s beautiful each time it breaks on his lips, —he’s beautiful.

 

“Good thing,” Jean finally says, “because then he would have missed the lake, and the waterfall, and my favorite, climbing trees.”

 

He sees the unruly hair peek out behind Marco once again, “Waterfall?”

 

Jean smiles, “Yeah, a _big_ one,” he whispers.

 

Naran’s little mouth drops, he peers up at Marco, pulling incessantly at his arm, “Didya’ hear that Marco? He said there’s a’ waterfall! A big one! Can we go, Marco? Please, please, please, please, pl—“

 

“Not today, Naran, you have to ask Momma first,” Marco explains, shooting a pleading look at Jean as his brother continues to pull at his arm, making his entire body dip to one side at the assault.

 

“Trading is no fun,” Naran complains, shoving his face into Marco’s side, bringing the dramatics even higher.

 

Jean bites back a smile and he sees Marco roll his eyes in the sweetest way possible.

 

“It’s not suppose to be fun, and you asked Momma to do it,” he reminds him.

 

“I wanna’ climb trees,” he changes the subject, voice muffled into Marco’s skin.

 

“Not today.”

 

“When?”

 

“Tomorrow?” Jean offers, using any excuse to see Marco again.

 

“Tomorrow!” Naran confirms, detaching himself swiftly from his older brother.

 

Jean tells them he’ll come by their tent again the following day, whether they can partake in any the activities he suggested isn’t his objective, just the promise of seeing Marco again is enough for him. He doesn’t dwell on how quickly he was drawn to the freckled boy, his enigmatic smile, his soft voice, his warm energy was something Jean had never experienced before. It was comfortable and peaceful, he simply wanted to be surrounded by it once again.

 

He thought of the faint freckles he had seen across Marco’s knuckles as he petted Naran’s hair before they parted, and he remembered how he had never told Marco his name.

\---

 

Nostalgia is no stranger to Jean, not when he looks back on his childhood, running through the deep valleys of the mountains that surround his territory, not when he remembers swimming with Eren in the lake hidden deep in the woods, not when he remembers his mother’s distinct smell whenever she would hold him close. Those memories, all reminders of moments that felt wonderful, invigorating, and satisfying. Nostalgia in the other world, it’s almost incomprehensible, memories and emotions that belonged to him in some existence, he’s not too certain if that is a plausible explanation. Those memories, however, a scent, a touch, scenery, the sound of his blades as they are dispensed from their holsters, they all are familiar in their simple actions, the sensation of them a reminder.

 

When he finds himself on the rooftop of a cottage once again, it is nearly second nature. He waits for the dread to slowly emanate inside him, the way it always seems to when he finds himself in this world. Yet, he hears no screams, there are no sounds of buildings collapsing, of cannon fire, no stench of blood. It feels as if all his senses are muted, almost similar to when he would try to swim to the bottom of the lake, coming up too quickly to only hear the muffled vibrations around him, his very existence feeling hazy. A new type of panic begins to encase his bones, making his throat seize, the footsteps, _where are the monsters?_

 

In his frenzy he fails to notice the figure only feet away from him, having sometimes been surrounded by faceless soldiers, he doesn’t think much of one being so close to him. The only true reality he has of this world is that he is the only one to feel all the obstruction and chaos occurring around him, it is only his heart that beats erratically, he hears the screaming, there always seems to be screaming, but those voices, _who do they belong to?_

 

He hears the footsteps in front of him, the crackle of debris under the weight of the boot. The sound alone startles him to attention, the sound was deliberate, louder that anything he had heard within the last few minutes. He looks up at the boy, his back turned to him, brown hair, an issued uniform decorating his figure. He looks down again, the front of his boot playing the debris, _intentionally_.

 

Jean wonders how much fear the body can take before it gives out, he feels his pulse surge in his chest, his ears, he tips of his fingers becoming clammy and spastic. He’s not sure if he’s even breathing at this point, his eyes won’t even blink.

 

The head of the boy turns the smallest bit to his left, thinks better of it, and looks ahead again. Jean can see how his broad shoulders fall, as if in relaxation, his back straightens, and he turns his head again, the gesture almost shy, calculating.

 

Jean waits, he can only watch as the head turns.

 

He sees the familiar shape of his nose, the sprinkling of freckles, fear dissipates to disbelief, a sensation fills his nose, his eyes start to feel sensitive, he wonders if he’ll cry.

 

He’s smiling for him, Jean can almost place the moment when Marco’s face begins to light up as if he were the sun himself.

 

“Jean,” his soft voice greets him, the octave identical, the warmth of it fills him completely.

 

When his eyes open, the vision feels hours away, the memory of it settles in his chest comfortably. In the midst of the quiet early morning, with his mother and others surrounding him in deep slumbers, he tries not to think of anything in particular. He feels peaceful, and he tries to focus on that simple emotion for as long as he can.

\---

 

He tells Reiner. The blond had developed a dependent predictability, rising at a specific time each morning, going about his actions to get ready for the day, Jean never realizing until now how much he valued that about his friend. He knew exactly where to find him and when, Reiner looked at him as he was approaching, smiling, but that quirk of his lips fading by each careful step Jean took closer to his larger form.

 

Jean leads Reiner into the brush, as inconspicuously as possible, and in a hushed voice he asks him about his home. About Erwin, about Levi, how did they know. In the same exhale of breath he wonders what advice Eren would offer him in his near crisis, terrible advice he assumes, and quickly decides that whatever that brunette boy would advise him to do, he should do the opposite. Reiner consoles him by explaining the pair he asked about, and realizes after hearing how Levi presently ignored Erwin after his own revelation, for weeks, that such a story was better in panicked theory.

 

“Well, what would you do?” Jean asks his friend in complete exasperation, the grander of his predicament seeming more eminent by each second that passes.

 

He sees Reiner’s face fall, so suddenly, that at any other moment it would make Jean laugh from the bottom on his stomach, but in his fragile state does nothing but terrify him more. He tries to form words, analyzes them before they are spoken, and stops himself. His muddy, yellow eyes peer at Jean in stern concentration.

 

“Talk to him, possibly. Is there really anything else you can do?”

 

Jean hoped for a concrete order, but he cannot blame his friend for anything less than a feasible suggestion. Jean hears a mumbling when he ignores the drumming in his ears, he sees Reiner’s lips move and asks him to repeat himself.

 

“Are you certain?” he asks.

 

A new wave of emotion washes over Jean, so strong it raises the hairs on his arms, feels something as sharp as the most pointed blade litter across every surface of him. It hallows him, the question leaves him empty, and he thinks of Marco, how he had breathed his name so gently into the air, his voice, his smile, his blinding presence in scenes of decay and anarchy, out of place, a complete miracle.

 

“I never told him my name,” he confesses, knowing the words that should follow, but he can’t bear to say them.

 

_He still knew it._

 

Jean wonders just what else the visitor could know about him, with his gentle smile and warm, brown skin. He wonders if there are certain things he could know about him already, all he knows is his name, _Marco_ , he knows not his touch, nor any inklings of his personality past his pleasant demeanor, not the way he eats, or sleeps. Will he learn all this, he wonders, had he always known this, somewhere in himself, had he simply been waiting for this boy, for as long as the stars saw it fit to keep them apart. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, to seek him out or hide within himself just a few seconds longer.

 

But he is not scared, if he only thinks of the exquisite way those flecks across the Escót’s skin expand transversely against his cheeks, if he only thinks of him, just of Marco, he is not afraid. He hears the way Marco’s voice formed the syllables of his own name, like a meek lullaby, the sound of his voice drains out the incessant drumming of his own shuddering heart. Silencing it, making it give way to open for something else, something more that is already starting to bloom and settle and make a home with warmth and tenderness in the cavity of his chest.

\---

 

Jean was true to the promise he had made to the brothers the previous day, as debilitating as every step he took around the camp appeared, with each stride he pressed on, he nearly felt weightless by the strange wake the vision had left him in. The severity of it became apparent with every press of his feet to the ground, the closer he was approaching to the settlement the Escóts had created within the camp his palms felt both cold stricken and clammy, no gust of wind or cry from children resonated with him, the faces he would look at wouldn’t be remembered a second later, there was only one face he was searching for, only one that mattered and had carefully, gently shattered all the comfort he had worked to create within his mind to this point.

 

He didn’t recognize the tent, their tent, until he nearly walked past it in his daze and a flash of unruly hair greeted him, much the same as the day before.

 

“Momma said no waterfall, but trees are okay, but little ones and only if Marco is there!” the little face peered up at him, eyes wide with excitement, Jean almost wonders if Naran had been patiently waiting for him since first light, scanning for his figure as Jean did everything in his power to not simply bolt into the forest.

 

“Naran,” a voice warns, Jean sees him out of the corner of his eye and almost can’t bring himself to look at him. Jean looks at Naran for a few seconds longer, but he can see Marco there as well, unmistakably.

 

When Jean’s eyes finally lose their resolve, they sweep up and find Marco’s, already on his, have been on him for sometime. Something seems to burst in Jean’s chest, ooze down to every bone in his body, leaving a jittering mess of nerves in its trail. His heart is thundering again and his skin feels hot, looking at Marco is enough to harbor such a reaction, but it’s different from their first encounter. Jean had looked at Marco, it was impossible not to, but he could have never known who this boy truly was, he still doesn’t. They both have a secret, precious and terrifying, and they look at each other, eyes learning and memorizing the planes of each other’s faces, new and special in the light, each time their eyes meet, rich brown with pale green, a fresh plume of energy bursts in Jean’s veins again.

 

“Can we go yet?” Naran’s little voice barks, Marco’s eyes linger on Jean before they fall to his brother’s.

 

“You haven’t eaten anything yet,” Marco runs his finger’s through his brother’s hair in affection, “Eat first, and if Jean still can, we will go.”

 

Jean perks up at the sound of his name, once again falling so beautifully from Marco’s mouth, _this is real isn’t it_ , he asks himself for better measure, for confirmation. Marco is looking at him, watching as if he’ll run away at any moment, and as terribly as he feels his soul shake, he can’t. He doesn’t want to be the coward Eren had called him once, he won’t run away from Marco, if he’s honest, he wants to swim in those big, brown eyes he’s looking at him with so kindly, so boldly with their intent.

 

“You can’t climb trees on an empty stomach, that’s the first rule of tree climbing,” Jean finally says.

 

“What’s the second rule?” Naran challenges.

 

“Don’t fall,” Jean says with mock authorization, watching Marco smile, and he hears Naran mutter, _well obviously_.

 

Jean leads the two into camp, lingering only longer than necessary to fill up his fluttering stomach, and that of his guests. He finds Reiner, still slumped against the same tree, offers him invitation with the brothers, but he declines, looking up at him with a closed lipped smile, eyebrow quirking before he returns to scrapping the wood of his pipe to a smooth finish. Jean rushes back to the brothers and they follow him as he guides them into the thickness of the forest. Jean watches his feet carefully, does his best to evade tripping over thick branches, Marco watches as Jean’s bare back saunters with each step he takes ahead of him.

\---

 

The trio spends hours within the forest, childhood restlessness not allowing them to even speak a word of ending Naran’s adventures before due time. Marco watches as Jean shows his brother how to properly climb a tree, although they settle on a small one for his age, yet even the smaller trees within the vast forests of the Aleutsch can rival some of the biggest trees within Marco’s own homeland. But Naran isn’t clumsy, and he listens to direction, following all of Jeans orders with just a smallest hint of uncertainty for the stranger, and Marco is relieved when Jean’s patience never waivers.

 

There come many moments throughout the day when Naran attempts the small trees by himself, with the boys watching him with a careful eye from below, the rays from the sun filtering through the thick canopy of the leaves above. Marco is forced to shrink his eyes away from the brightness, Jean’s attentiveness still on Naran, and Marco’s eyes rove over Jean’s face, just a shade darker than within the vision. He notes the dark circles beneath his hazel eyes, just as present as when he first looked at him on the rooftop.

 

Marco didn’t know why he breathed that name, _it was Jean’s name_ , or where is had come from, but it burst out of him in the smallest, most delicate way, as if he had to say it, the sound, the _memory_ of it could not be contained within him any longer. The realization on Jean’s own face, how it softened to surprise, how his eyes had danced spastically, it was so unbiased and beautiful, it instantly made Marco’s chest ache. But it was over as quickly as it had began, when Marco opened his eyes the ache in his chest remained, but for different reasons. His head was clear with the understanding, for Marco had had visions since he was young, horrific and shattering, and the elders would tell him there would come a day when they would be different. Marco knew what they were alluding to of course, but he couldn’t possibly imagine a reality where his life could change more than it already had.

 

All those memories flood his mind at once, anxieties, panics, low, simmering heat that feels like it will rob his breath. He watches as the bone in Jean’s jaw clenches and his eyes immediately find Naran’s position, relief settling him as he sees his brother, so small and brave, sitting on a sturdy branch, feet dangling in the open air.

 

Another memory finds Marco, of himself in the trees, himself in uniform watching as giants walk on the ground below him in a mindless direction.

 

He hears Jean shift his weight, the ground below him crunching under the mass, and his eyes fall to his sharp, elegant face. Jean is already looking at him, his head turned just the slightest over his shoulder, his neck raised barely an inch to peer up at Marco’s taller stature. There is almost a ghost of a smile on his lips, his eyes nearly look like muddy river water, but they’re clearer, bright and calm, holding steady on Marco’s gaze. Marco wants to reach out and graze his thumb against the high blush coloring Jean’s cheeks, he’s always found comfort in touching others, and the sudden need to want to touch Jean is immediate and terrifying.

 

Naran’s voice draws the boys out of their thoughts, Jean is the first to react, walking closer to the tree to offer encouragement and Marco’s legs stay rooted to the ground, it only takes a second for Marco to decide that the weight of Jean’s gaze is a sense of stability he’s never felt.

 

They continue this way for hours, Marco glancing at Jean to simply see glimpses of his ashen hair, his arms, his bare back, the way sweat glimmers in the dips of his collarbones, against the stretch of his thin, flat stomach. Many times when Marco has enough courage to look again, Jean’s eyes are already on his, lowering to look at all the parts of Marco’s own body, Jean’s eyelashes a dark fan of coy mystery.

 

They do not speak to each other directly over those hours, both focusing all their efforts on Naran and both his safety and comfort. When the sun has softened and turned the clouds pinks and oranges Marco rarely sees in his own homeland, Marco begrudgingly tells his little brother that they must return to camp, the whines his brother produces mirror the ones in his head for he doesn’t want their time with Jean to be over either.

 

The walk back feels shorter than it had within the morning, but the certainty of Naran’s tired limbs make it feel longer somehow as well. Marco takes his brother on his back for the rest of the way, and his small arms move with each heavier step Marco takes. When Marco sees the border of the tents he lets Naran find their own tent by himself, Marco is sure that Naran begins to run in order to tell their mother of all the new exploits he had today. The boys find themselves alone and neither knows which will speak first.

 

Jean is looking to the ground, the bravery he had felt throughout the day, the countless hours he had spent rehearsing in his head dissipates to nothing knowing Marco is so close. His worries begin to crawl up his throat and he begins to turn back toward the camp, but Marco’s voice rings clearly in his ear like the first beat of a drum.

 

“Jean?”

 

It brings him back to himself, his worries feel silenced, and all he can see are the way Marco’s eyes are pleading so softly.

 

“I don’t know how to say this,” he begins, his voice hitching by the small, sudden breaths he takes, “I … how do you say this, how do you begin this?” he’s asking himself, he almost sounds pained, the disbelief in his words plain.

 

“I know, Marco.”

 

Those dark eyes seem to focus, Jean is glad he can do that much, his words are just as unsure as Marco’s, he can’t provide any solace for him, no explanation, and no advice. He feels just as helpless.

 

“What do you know?” Marco sounds even more desperate than before.

 

“Everything,” Jean says quickly, and he realizes how imprecise that must sound to Marco, but he doesn’t know how to begin either, how to tell him he knows the reality they have both been plagued with, he knows the significance those visions have on the mind every day, how their weight crushes them at all hours, how for once he hadn’t felt that when he saw Marco. How his smile had made him feel light, how the sensation was as powerful as the moments he’s suspended within air between the solidity of buildings. “I saw it too.”

 

Jean wonders how carefully Marco must have kept himself together throughout all those hours, with each flicker of his eyes, with each silent heaving of his chest, his resolve seems to wither away, the actuality of it falling from his face.

 

“Why are you crying?” Jean asks him, stepping closer, closer than he’s ever been to the beautiful boy in front of him.

 

Marco’s eyes drag up, tears filling them to the brim, but only a few trail past the constellations of freckles littering his cheeks. His nose is red from the sensations, and the faint dusting of marks there fade against the scarlet hue.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, the strain in his voice is thick and he tries to chide it back with his hand, wiping tears away, covering as much of his face as he can with the motion.

 

Jean wishes he could take that hand from his face, lower it and envelope it in his own because Marco doesn’t have to apologize, Marco doesn’t have to be brave if he can’t be, because Jean has felt so helpless for too long and if Marco will allow him to help, he will.

 

When Marco has steadied his breathing, he looks at Jean again, with the close proximity he only needs to raise his eyes a small distance. Through tried eyes he still smiles at him before they drink in the worry on his face, he can only look at him for a few seconds before he realizes it is not the same as it was in the forest. His fleeting looks were innocent, they did not hold the gravity in their situation in gentle hands, he cannot look at Jean and ignore the very true certainty that he is real, his life goes beyond one vision, beyond the hours they spend together, his life in this world is unknown to Marco. Yet he can’t stand to leave him, but he knows he must, in a few days his tribe will make the journey back to their own lands, and Marco doesn’t want to think of what will happen when time catches up to him. All he can do is offer Jean a small smile through the tightness of his tired, red eyes, he walks back into the camp before the selfishness of his actions can register on his conscious.

\---

 

Jean’s eyes feel heavy when darkness is complete outside his tent, every part of him feels as though it will seep into the ground and within the sounds of those sleeping peacefully around him, he feels the pull of the other world, and he accepts whatever destruction will find him.

 

He is surprised when his eyes open once more and he is in darkness again, snores can be heard in the distance, but the rustling of leaves he had heard only moments ago is void, that detail alone alerts him he is not in his own world any longer. He allows his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room, and he can make out the faint creaking of bunks, the silence of the barracks carries peace.

 

When his eyes can make out more than simple shadows Jean can see Marco’s sleeping face next to him. Worry is not etched into is as it had been within the forest, his hair is once again shorter, and even in the blanket of night he knows he is paler and smaller. Jean knows he can look upon Marco’s soft face for hours, but the heat being shared between the two is just as enticing. With Marco’s unconsciousness as an excuse, Jean moves himself closer to the cavity between Marco’s arm, nestling his face into the boy’s chest. When Marco does not stir, Jean snakes his arm between Marco’s, letting his fingers gently brush trails up and down the sleeping boy’s back.

 

This had simply been what Jean had wanted to do for Marco, the gesture had calmed Eren that lone time within the forest, Jean had wanted Marco to surrender to him so terribly, to whisper comforts in his ears he didn’t know he could provide, to kiss into his hair, to soothe him with sensory touch. His need to aid had never been as strong before, and Jean knows touch within memory is as powerful as visual reminders. Jean had embraced Marco before, he knows this without the visions to prove it, he feels the beauty of their closeness, unmistakable and grounding.

 

Marco does shift when he feels the tips of fingers brushing against his back, in his hazy consciousness he can also feel the presence of another huddled as close to him as a second skin. When his eyes open he notes how it is not the hair of Naran he looks down at, but the lighter strands of another. One of Marco’s arms pull Jean even closer to him, his plaint body responds immediately, burying itself even more into Marco. His arms runs up the expanse of Jean’s back, his hand weaving into Jean’s hair, feeling the grain of the shorter strands beneath his palm. Jean makes a small noise in his throat and Marco feels helpless for different reasons now.

 

“Sleep, okay?” Jean tells him, his fingers never ceasing their comforting gesture, and Marco wants nothing more than to let his other arm encase Jean completely, hugging him to his own body that fits perfectly against his long limbs. But he stays still because Jean is doing this for him and it feels wonderful and Jean is rubbing his nose into the threads of Marco’s nightclothes just to breathe in his scent, and that is just as wonderful as well.

 

Marco follows Jean’s orders, eyes falling shut as fingers continue to soothe him out of a serene vision.

\---

 

He can still feel the heat of Jean’s hand in his own as they continue to walk to a location only known by Jean’s memory. He had taken Marco’s hand in the beginning, for only a few seconds to pull him along, the warmth of it wasn’t extraordinary nor scorching, but the touch alone was trusting although short lived.

 

In the morning Marco had found Jean walking past his tent once again, just like the previous day, and the dizziness he had felt when he had woken up from his vision, surreal and pure, only heightened when he saw the boy in front of him suddenly. Before Naran could wake Marco told his mother if he could be excused for another day, she had given him a unimpressed look, but granted him his request and did not tell him to wait for Naran to accompany him.

 

Silently Jean had reached for his hand, Marco allowed him to, and he felt its subtle warmth before Jean let it go behind him. They walked in silence as well, neither mentioning the vision that had brought them closer, yet they felt the affects of it, they walked in tighter proximity, Marco did not feel imposing when he looked upon Jean and when Jean would look back to see if Marco was still close behind he would smile, shy, but he appeared to gleam.

 

After some time they made it to a lake, the only company offered to them were the sounds of chirping birds and the animals grazing within the woods nearby. The waters were blue and calm, the tall trees surrounding the circular body of water made it utterly breathtaking, sun shimmering against the surface in final detail. Marco wondered why Jean had brought him here, but before he could finish the thought he heard him speak.

 

“I use to come here a lot when I was younger. Eren and I had found this lake because neither of us wanted to stop running, I didn’t want him to beat me,” and when Marco’s eyes look puzzled, Jean continues, “Eren is ... like us. He’s a _qual’a’tao_ , but he isn’t here anymore.”

 

“Where is he?”

 

“The north, with the Raiuský,” he says slowly, looking back at the water. Marco knows of the most famous _qual’a’tao_ , Armin, who resides in the North and he wonders if Eren went to him specifically.

 

“Can you swim?” Jean asks him, the innocent question bringing a smile to Marco’s lips.

 

“Yes,” Marco responds, his own clan lives close to the ocean, many times diving against the cliffs off the coast to retrieve shellfish for their tribe. Marco spent much of his childhood chasing waves, the water always a comfort to get lost in.

 

Jean nods in acknowledgement and moves just a bit closer to the shore, hands resting against his hips bones. Marco only realizes then that Jean is stalling, for they must remove their leg coverings if they want to swim freely in the lake. Marco bites his lip and does not allow himself to think of Jean’s nude form, but he knows Jean did not bring him deep in the forest for such intimate exchanges, if the scarlet blush that is inking his cheeks, neck, and chest is anything to go by.

 

Marco remembers the steady rhythm of Jean’s long fingers against his back, how he had been brave while they were both still teetering on the edge of seeking comfort and hiding within themselves. Although Jean did not voice it, he already cared for Marco so deeply, and he was trying with all his efforts, Marco could not ignore that.

 

He takes in a deep breath and loosens the fastening of his leg coverings, letting the sewn piece fall to the ground, and without a glance backwards, dives into the water. The lake itself is cold, but not unbearably so, it pricks his skin and shocks him to alertness, and when he resurfaced, scrubbing a hand to his face to remove excess water, he does not see Jean on the shore.

 

Marco glides within the mass of water until Jean’s head breaks the surface, huffing breaths, “It’s cold!”

 

Marco laughs, watching as droplets fall from the ends of Jean’s hair, “Maybe we should have eased into it?”

 

“Who has time for that?” Jean says, and it nearly sounds as if he is speaking of something else.

 

 _We don’t_ , Marco thinks.

 

When he doesn’t respond, Jean looks over at him, but before he can see the brief pass of sadness on his face Marco cups water into his palms, using enough force to push it in Jean’s direction, covering him in a wave of lake water.

 

“You’re right,” Marco finally agrees, but not before Jean repays him for his trick.

 

They continue on this way until time feels lost to them, Jean splashes Marco in equal parts, chasing him within the water, feeling the slickness of his arms as he tries to break free, their laughter being the loudest sound within the calm forest. When they tire of their child’s play they call a truce, floating on the water’s surface, their fingers woven together per Jean’s request, “so you don’t float away” he says and Marco keeps any comments to himself at Jean’s terrible excuse.

 

When they become too hot from the sun overhead, and from the sensitivity of their pruned hands and feet, they decide to return to the shore. Jean does not let go of Marco’s hand this time, not until they are seated against the edge, far enough so the water does not lap at their feet. Jean sits close to him, their arms touching and Marco continues to look at the lake in front of them, the same peace as gazing at the ocean being produced.

 

Jean speaks quietly, always seems to choose his moments carefully, as if not wanting to impose, Marco finds that endearing about him.

 

“Does this scare you?” he asks in just above a whisper, but does not look at him.

 

Marco thinks of how he did not make it to his tent the previous day, the tears and broken breaths coming again after only a few steps, he slumped against a tree, curling into himself in order for his cries not to be heard. It was not fear that drove him to such emotions, but the uncertainty of the situation, how it had been revealed to him so suddenly, from one day to the other his life had changed so drastically. If he had had any sort of warning, perhaps it would not have felt like such a crushing blow, but Marco knows there is no such thing. The visions simply begin one day and you are a slave to them from then on, but this is different, this involves the life of another, Marco knows that from the very second he saw Jean their lives became interwoven by the Gods, had always been so close until their paths finally crossed.

 

“Not like it should,” Marco tells him, because he is scared, but it is not a fear he has experienced before.

The response sits comfortably with Jean because he knows it is the truth, he would be surprised if Marco had said anything less. Jean feels the light winds dry the droplets on his skin but they still make the fine hairs on his arms and legs stand on end, he leans into Marco more, drawing his knees to his chest to cover himself. He can feel Marco’s gaze on him, he holds still for many seconds before he lowers his head, resting the side of his cheek against Jean’s damp hair. Jean feels the urge to hold Marco close again, but he fights it silently.

 

“My tribe is leaving in a number of days,” Marco finally says, finding enough courage to voice the fact.

 

“I know.”

 

“We don’t have very long together,” Marco continues and he is unsure if he should have said it, he doesn’t know if he should stay, he doesn’t know if Jean would _want_ him to stay.

 

But Jean says nothing, only lifting his head from under the pleasant weight of Marco’s own, their faces close, and he can see how rich Marco’s eyes are, he wants to map every freckle spread across his face just as he has looks reverently at the stars at night. He’s heard Marco’s words, but he doesn’t want to truly listen, he doesn’t want to think of a day when they will say goodbye, if that is what Marco desires.

 

Jean doesn’t stop his hand as it acts on its own, “I know,” he voices again quietly, fingers curling just below Marco’s ear, thumb slowly swiping the curvature of Marco’s faint cheekbone. Jean doesn’t note when Marco begins breathing through his mouth instead of his nose, but he does see the way his eyes get larger, eyebrows drooping in concentrated surprise, and Jean doesn’t know what possess him to let his thumb travel down, tracing Marco’s lower lip.

 

“Can I kiss you?”

 

And before Marco can even think to respond he leans himself in, Jean having just enough time to move his hand into Marco’s hair. Jean pulls him close as their mouths press together, not wanting to move from their perfect fit. But Marco pulls away slightly and Jean wonders if it is to stop, that he’s acted too quickly, Marco simply kisses Jean deeper, arms somehow winding around his neck and it feels like nothing else if not wonderfully familiar for the two.

\---

 

Reiner sees the boys in the forest. He is resting against a tree trunk for only a short time before he must return to his work for the day, he is a bit out of the way from the camp, sometimes preferring the quiet of the forest than to the rambunctious commotion of the Aleutsch clan. The forest in these territories reminds him of home, the way all the flora would bloom around his settlement in a masterpiece of rich colors and precious new life within spring and summer. One of the largest differences however, is that the Aleutsch are granted such a grand display year round, only to be blanketed with snow in colder years. It is in the serenity of the forest where Reiner spends his time alone, and it is here when he sees Jean walking with a southerner along a trail, descending down from the higher elevation, walking closely, fingers twined together like lovers.

 

Reiner watches them as they pass a ways away in front of him, they walk silently, and when they are approaching the border of camp he sees Jean stop, lifting the southerner’s hand to his mouth, placing a kiss there before they break away, each taking differing directions. Reiner knows this must be the one Jean spoke of, the one Reiner himself had only seen for a fraction of a second the day he had welcomed the Escót tribe. Reiner wonders how they could have gotten so intimate so quickly, it had been only days since the visitors had arrived, only a few days at the most that Jean had told him he had found his _other_ , asked for Reiner’s advice on the matter, but acted according to his own character. Now Reiner could see him, in the privacy of the forest, holding onto each other as if one another was more precious than anything fathomable. Reiner had held Armin in such a way once, he remembers, but he knows for certain it never looked quite like that.

 

Jean has not spoken more than a few words to him since that morning he sought his advice, and Reiner knows better than to pry, especially since each day upon Jean’s return, after hours of disappearing into the forest, he smiles larger than Reiner has ever seen. _It must be his doing_ , he thinks as he sees the southerner linger in his spot, watching as Jean walks only a few steps away, before he does as well.

\---

 

Jean simply cannot refrain from his duties any longer, nor will his mother allow him to, asking him in the privacy of their tent as to why he has wandered into the forest for the last two days, leaving herself and Reiner to tend to the chores. Reiner offers him an apologetic smile, telling Jean’s mother that it was no burden at all, but she simply doesn’t feel the same way, asking Jean what has him gallivanting around like a child again. Jean doesn’t meet her eyes, simply lets them fixate on one spot within the tent until he mumbles something acute to an apology, to both his mother and Reiner. The blond can feel the tension between them, nudges Jean’s arm to steer him outside, and he follows solemnly.

 

Reiner picks one of the baskets awaiting outside, one Jean has made, and the ashen blond follows suit, they both walk into the forest. For the last few days Reiner had simply been collecting fallen nuts from the forest ground, nothing taxing or particularly strenuous on his physical form, yet Jean’s mother must have thought it strange that her son was no where to be found, especially not by Reiner’s side. They had become fast friends, and if Reiner was being quite honest, he had missed Jean’s company beside him.

 

The two walk father than Reiner had the previous day, the ground have been positively stripped of nuts due to Reiner’s meticulous work, of course he had help from others. Jean does not ask him anything, does not gripe about his mother, and does not speak of the foreign boy. After a particularly long lull of silence, Reiner takes the initiative.

 

“You want to see him, don’t you?”

 

Jean’s head perks up so quickly, it’s as if he’s a deer that has heard the first tremor of hunter’s movements. It almost makes Reiner laugh, but Jean’s expression is equal parts sadness and annoyance. He further crouches down onto the ground, letting his basket rest against it, both hands gripping it around the rim. Jean seems to consider the question, looking up a bit, and breathing out heavily.

 

“It’s strange being apart from him,” he says honestly, after only a few precious days together, Jean knows he never wants Marco to be too far from him, there’s almost a small kindling of fear within him of what would happen if Marco were to leave him completely.

 

“What’s his name?” Reiner asks innocently, because Jean has never mentioned it, he had never even heard it on the lips of any Escót.

 

Jean smiles, “Marco,” he nearly breathes it out, such a loving tenor in the way he says it, Reiner is sure the ashen blond doesn’t even realize how he simply speaks differently with anything regarding the boy.

 

“Is Marco too revered to collect nuts with the rest of us?” if it were not for Reiner’s smirk, he was sure he would devour him with his cold stare alone.

 

“I’ll go find out,” Reiner continues, setting his basket down, walking out of the forest before Jean can even fathom a protesting remark in his head. The minutes feel excruciatingly long, Jean’s heart feels as though it will beat out of his chest, and any sound he hears he believes to be Marco’s footsteps. He realizes his hands are trembling slightly when he continues with his work, and he shakes them out knowing that will do nothing but ease his mind for a few seconds.

 

Reiner returns with Marco, true to his word, and it almost feels painful to see him. Every time Jean looks at him it feels as though something is blooming in his chest, suffocating and wonderful, and he has never felt that for another, it’s dizzying and intoxicating all the same, he wants to drown in the feeling if Marco will let him.

 

That very feeling is subdued slightly, but built even higher with affection, as Jean takes in the entire sight of the trio walking towards him. Marco is in front with Reiner behind him, Naran is being carried on the blonde’s back for one reason or another, he doesn’t care so much as to why because Marco is here and that’s all the truly matters.

 

“Is he tired again?” Jean asks, standing upright and gesturing to Naran.

 

Marco laughs a bit, the sound as beautiful as chirping birds, “Oh no, he had heard that others had been carried by your friend if they asked, he had finally wanted a turn.”

 

Jean turns to Reiner, seeing him shrug and he smiles at Jean, the gesture alone telling him more than he does with words. _This is for you, enjoy it_. He will, and he does.

 

For the following hours the small groups takes to gathering nuts for the seasonal delicacies. Reiner volunteers himself to look after Naran as they gather to the left of the boys, close enough to still be seen, but far enough away for private conversation should they want it. They talk of nothing particularly thrilling, Jean apologizes for not seeing Marco in the morning, for it had felt like the beginnings of a new routine for him, but Marco dismisses his apology, “Your work comes first,” he says, but Jean can’t help but completely disagree with him.

 

They work mostly in silence, fingers brushing against each other’s too many times to be coincidental, they listen to Naran’s stories as he recounts them to Reiner with so much detail and exuberance it is enough to make Jean’s eyes grow large, Marco stifles his laughs, choosing instead to simply watch Jean’s expressions change, how each one’s equally as beautiful as the last. It is enough to want to drive Marco to madness, when Reiner voices that he and Naran will move ahead Marco takes the opportunity to place Jean against a tree, the thick trunk shielding the others from how terribly the southerner wants to kiss the ashen blond silly.

 

The hours pass far too quickly, Jean invites the brothers back the following day to assist in preparing the nuts, Marco dutifully agrees and both of their hearts are jittering from the promise of seeing one another soon. Reiner takes the baskets of nuts, placing them one on top of the other as they walk back to their tent. Jean doesn’t speak on the way, the only semblance of his happiness is the smile that can’t seem to leave his face. But that fades well into the evening.

 

Jean’s mother asks the boys how their day was after they have settled in their meal, Reiner recounts to her of their hours in the forest, of the new friends they have found within the Escót visitors. She is overjoyed to hear that Jean is making new acquaintances, not letting others be deterred by his attitude, one comment he physically groans at.

 

“It’s a shame they will be leaving in a few days,” she says, not noticing how such a remark creates an immediate silence.

 

Reiner looks to Jean on instinct, his eyes fixated on an object within the tent again, even then the blond can see how painfully hard Jean is trying to control his expression. His face becomes troubled for a second, eyebrows furrowing, mouth twitching into itself, he bites his lip and continues eating, offering nothing to his mother.

 

“It is a shame,” Reiner agrees in earnest, thankfully she begins to speak of something else, Reiner watches Jean for a few moments longer before he turns away to give him a vague sense of privacy.

 

Later in the night Jean’s mood continues to worsen, he becomes further withdrawn and Reiner cannot simply ignore it. It was Jean’s family who had taken him in officially after he had stayed with others, it was Jean’s mother who had reminded Reiner of his own back home, and it was Jean who had offered him not only friendship, but an individual who shared his own struggles, however diverse they were in context. Jean had become like a brother to Reiner, and it pained him to see him so obviously hurt.

 

Reiner finds Jean slumped against the tree outside their tent, the fire still crackling from where Jean’s mother had cooked their meal offers the only light. Reiner sits beside him, testing the situation to see if Jean will invite the conversation, but Reiner knows it is not a topic he adamantly wants to discuss, therein lays all his sadness.

 

“Have you talked to him…,” Reiner begins, unsure of the best way to navigate the issue without it soundly horribly insincere, “have you two discussed what will happen after…”

 

“After he leaves?” Jean says with malice in his tone.

 

“Does he have to leave?” Reiner presses on.

 

Jean laughs bitterly, letting his head fall against the trunk of the tree with a loud thud, “Why would he stay?”

 

Reiner is confused, “Because you two…”

 

“Marco has a family, he can’t leave them simply because he met me. He—we barely know each other, I can’t ask him to do something like that.”

 

“Have you even asked him? Has he asked you?”

 

“No!”

 

“And why not?”

 

“Because I’m a fucking coward, that’s why! You don’t think I want to be with him? You don’t think I want to see him everyday? I’ve always been scared of this, of what would happen if I ever met another and it happened to be _that_ person. I’ve been too afraid to look, I’m not like you or Eren who just goes because they feel that pull. I feel it too, but I’ve always been scared. But with him—I’m not afraid of anything but losing him. It sounds unbelievable saying it out loud, they never tell you it will feel like _this_ , that you feel it immediately, and it’s like you’ve felt like this before.”

 

“Erwin said that as well,” he remembers, “that it’s peaceful.”

 

“It’s more than that,” Jean says, his voice finally settling.

 

Reiner can’t imagine how terrible it must feel to meet someone so extraordinary to only have the possibility of losing them just as quickly. He doesn’t want that for Jean, and although the Aleutsch sounds like he has already given up, Reiner knows he’ll fight for a reality he deserves.

 

“You have to tell him,” Reiner finally says after having listened to the crackling fire for far too long.

 

He hears Jean breathe out, even and slow, believing he won’t respond, but when he does his voice is quiet, but resilient.

 

“I will.”

\---

The precious luxury of time escapes Jean, for never has he felt so anxious about every minute, every hour that passes him by. He cannot explain why it creates a blooming of anxiety inside his head, each word he exchanges with Marco is not the correct word, each topic they discuss is not the one heavy on their minds, they don’t ignore it, but they don’t speak of it. Jean wonders if Marco is satisfied with pretending to be ignorant that each day that passes is a day closer to when he will leave, he may leave, or perhaps he will stay. He doesn’t know, neither does Jean, both too afraid to even mention the reality again. Marco believes Jean was all too accepting of it, _My tribe is leaving in a number of days, we don’t have very long together_ , and Jean believes Marco was gently, so tenderly telling him that a future together is not a reality.

 

They spend the following day like this, in ignorant bliss, craving each other’s company and only being able to fulfill it with the company of others surrounding them. They both think of that day by the lake, how they should have spoken more, should have touched and kissed and explored more, how they still are strangers to one another, but neither of them truly cares.

 

Once again Reiner joins them, Naran attached to his hip as they watch Jean prepare the mush. Along the creek are boulders that have carved indentations; perfect for grinding the pesky nuts into, when there is enough grounded product they dump it into a basket. Jean teaches them all how his tribe prepares the mush, first having to rinse is clean of its toxins before it can even be thought of as safe to consume. He takes a small pot with an elongated, curved rim and runs water down and around the mush, Naran moves it all around with his small hands, and when Jean believes they have caught on enough, he does the same with Marco.

 

Hours pass in silence, lest for Naran’s colorful narration and the bellowing laughs from Reiner, again, each minute that passes is not the _right_ one to bring up such a difficult topic, not with others around them, not during preparations. Jean doesn’t know when a correct opportunity will come up, he’s not so sure there ever will be for something so delicate, he can’t ignore it for much longer, but not here, he decides, perhaps not today.

 

During one moment Marco does speak, and Jean believes he has more courage than he does to attempt it, but the comment surprises him, “Are these your baskets?”

 

Jean stops pouring the fresh water, holding the pot in both hands, _of course he would remember_.

 

“Yes,” he confirms, bringing another lovely smile to Marco’s lips.

 

“They are beautiful,” he says quietly, looking Jean straight into his eyes.

 

“Pretty,” Jean corrects him, hoping Marco will remember the context of it from their c, but he isn’t speaking of his own baskets, he’s sure Marco knows that fact as well, sees his eyes drop to Jean’s lips and he finds himself nodding and from one second to another he feels that warm press of Marco’s mouth on his own. The only thought in Jean’s mind is how he’s starved for Marco, how he’s close but not enough to satisfy him, and when Marco lets the slickness of his tongue lick across Jean’s lips it feels like a blissful death.

 

They pull apart before anyone has had time to notice the exchange, just another secret between the two. Jean hopes it's another of many. Jean wonders if all Marco’s secrets are just as innocent and beautiful and warm as he is, he’s not prepared for what he finds after their souls have already become so painfully intertwined.

 

They finish their preparations some time later, eating dinner separately, sleeping in their own tents, but they meet again in the other world. Jean is following a comrade on the cobbled streets, the stench of decay thick in the air, he had almost forgotten how that smell had become synonymous for him to this world, it had only become peaceful since he had met Marco. He follows the faceless individual, believing himself to be safe if he is walking on the streets as opposed to standing on rooftops, with his maneuver gear heavy on his hips. He’s passing others as he walks, all slumped against the ground, crushed under debris, the smell of their blood faint against the cloth mask he is wearing against his nose and mouth. He briefly wonders where Marco is, curious that he is not by his side.

 

They walk only steps further before his eyes scan against another, back leaning against the structure of a building, head lulled to one side, and when Jean realizes he can see his face, even with half of it mauled off, _half his body torn apart_ , he can still see the dust of freckles beneath the blood, one brown eye still open.

 

“Marco,” he says weakly, believing by some miracle he will respond, but Jean sees neither a twitch nor a breath come out of his mouth, he simply remains in the that terrible position, and the more Jean looks at him, _he can’t tear his eyes away_ , the more details he painfully registers.

 

 _He saw it_ , Jean thinks, _he saw it coming towards him_ , he knew he was going to die.

 

“Why didn’t you run?” he asks it, “I never told you… I should have told you.”

 

He can feel tears seep in the fabric of his mask, every broken inhale of breath gets suffocated in the cloth, he rips it off in his haste, legs losing strength, knees barely registering the pain as they connect with the cobbled street. He hears himself, he’s wailing and he can’t seem to stop, “I’m sorry,” he can hardly manage it out, but he has to say it, “I’m sorry… Marco.”

 

Between the heaving and the torturous, shattering ache in his chest he can only think that he didn’t have enough time, the precious moments he spent with Marco were not enough, he didn’t hear his laugh enough, didn’t truly feel the steady weight of his hand in his, didn’t know enough about him to miss him this terribly already. He doesn’t think if Marco will still be there when he wakes up, he can’t think of anything but his pain, he never knew it was possible to feel so much in one moment alone.

 

But he does wake, chest still heaving, eyes red and wet, limbs like rooted trees. Against all this he walks out of his tent, time precious once again, each second bringing him closer, each one letting his fear spike. He finds him outside, complete and well and standing and alive, and Jean falls again, but Marco catches him, holds him tight and he’s warm with life. Jean doesn’t know how much time passes, it feels like it has suddenly stopped its torture, Marco soothes his hair, clutches him tighter to his broad chest and Jean can’t believe he is even doing that much, he wants to speak but he can’t, nothing coming out of his mouth but tumbles and tumbles of sobs.

 

Somehow Jean finds himself in Marco’s tent, hears him whisper apologies to his mother and Naran, and Jean buries himself further in the comfort of Marco’s neck, he feels the southerner’s hair tickle his nose, Marco wraps his arms around him again and he’s never felt so safe. He’s glad he still can’t speak, he imagines his throat is raw from everything, because if he could he would tell Marco how much he loves him.

\---

 

When Jean wakes he feels the soft caresses of fingertips across his back, comforting heat surrounding him, and a smell unmistakably Marco’s fills his nose with relief. He stirs a bit, eyes still closed, nestling himself further into the embrace Marco has kept him in for hours. When his mind finally catches up to him, he tries to determine if he’s having a vision, of another of the two in the barracks, but he suddenly remembers all too quickly the vision from before, he could never forget seeing the mauled remains of Marco’s body carelessly sprawled against a building, his mind had failed him for just an instant to believe everything was as it should be for them, that they were just two souls wonderfully, and happily in love.

 

“Jean?” Marco whispers just above his head, he can feel his breathe graze across his hair.

 

“You’re alive?” he croaks out, throat still raw from the night before. He knows it’s an unnecessary question, but if Marco can only confirm it, then Jean can guarantee his mind isn’t continuing to play tricks on him.

 

“Mmm,” Marco hums, and Jean can feel the vibrations in his chest from where his own arm is curled against it.

 

“How?” he asks hopelessly, and Marco brings him even further into himself.

 

“I had seen you,” he begins, his voice sounding very distant, “it had never happened before, and I was hoping it never would with you. I could see you in the other world, I could hear everything you told me, but I was dead, I’ve never seen it from the other side. I could see you and I could see myself, I have died so many times in that world, but I would just wakeup. The first time it happened I thought I did truly die, but I had woken up screaming, my mother thought something terrible was happening to me. She knows about the visions, but I could never tell her the truth,” Jean can hear his breathing become unsteady, and he pauses, his fingers resuming their careful rhythm once again, “I never wanted you to see that.”

 

Jean can feel the sobs that being to wrack Marco’s body, his composure beginning to crumble and he quickly pulls away from him, leaning over his body to hold onto him as he continues to shake.

 

“Shh…Marco, it’s okay,” he whispers into his hair, “We’re okay, Marco.”

 

Marco holds onto him like a lifeline, and all Jean can do is try to soothe him

 

“I’m sorry,” he tries to tell him, but Jean won’t hear it, running his fingertips against the back of his neck, into his hair and back down again.

 

“Shh… it’s okay,” he repeats, “I won’t lose you again, I promise, it’s okay Marco.”

 

He has no merit to assure such a thing, but it is all Jean can offer Marco in this moment, seeing him so guilty and broken for a reality that has been out of their hands since the first time they were shown such a cruel world. Jean knows Marco is noble, loyal, and so inherently good, he shoulders the burden if he can, and it should come as no surprise that he should apologize to Jean for seeing such a thing, when all Jean can think is _you’ve died so many times, in complete agony, why are you only thinking of me?_

 

Yet sill Marco clutches to him, the force of Jean’s words making him want to hear more, more of this world Jean is telling him about, where they’re together because they can be.

 

“I don’t want to leave you,” Marco confesses, his voice strained, but the control of it begins to return. It still sounds hopeless to Jean, and he arches back to look at Marco, his nose red, cheeks tearstained and eyes irritated and vulnerable and gaping at him as if he held all the answers in the world. Jean must have looked at him the same way last night, he believes, because he wants nothing but to take Marco’s pain away, to even share it a bit if he’ll allow it.

 

“I won’t let you,” Jean tells him, hoping his words will register in Marco’s mind, he wants to do more than soothe him, he wants Marco to believe his declarations.

 

“ _Jean_ ,” he just barely manages to say before his breathing begins to hitch again.

 

“I’ll go with you, _anywhere_. I want to be with you, Marco. I lost you once, I know I did. I won’t lose you again. I won’t let you go, not unless you want me to.”

 

Everything feels delicate when Marco brings his hand up to Jean’s face, feeling the soft skin underneath his palm, the moment is so fragile, both almost waiting for something to happen to let it shatter. They look into each other’s eyes, murky green and deep brown, minds racing with pleas and secrets they want to share, hearts open so wide and bare.

 

_How long have I been waiting for you._

 

“Don’t let me go,” Marco tells him, letting his fingers scrape the finer hairs against Jean’s scalp, getting lost in his ashen hair. Jean nods, letting Marco’s hands guide him back to the comfort he exudes. He kisses his jaw, his neck, his throat and he feels Marco shudder underneath him, beautifully and openly. He wants to relish in the closeness, of Marco being alive and here and _his_ , of simply existing along with Jean, however torturous and incredible it had taken to purely get to such a moment.

\---

 

They only have days left in the territory, they choose to tell Jean’s mother first. The boys had spoken of the matter further, Jean ensuring Marco that it was a decision he took seriously, not one that had sprung upon him in the chaos. Marco didn’t want to be the reason for Jean to leave a territory that was his home, but he told the brunette he couldn’t think of a better reason to go.

 

Jean’s mother took it as well as Jean would have believed her to, listening until the boys were finished, bursting into tears not a second later. She had cried just the same when Eren told her he would travel north, believing him to be selfish and a glutton for anything dangerous, but to Jean’s surprise she pulled Marco close, holding onto him for only a few seconds as she cried.

 

“Take care of him,” he had heard her whisper to Marco, and for once he couldn’t ridicule how much she worried about him, not when he watched Marco soothe her, promise her that he would do everything in his power to protect him, his heart swelled, and he hoped his mother could feel just how much that boy loved him. And if she couldn’t believe it, neither could he.

 

They tell Reiner after that, Marco was the one who had suggested it, and it puzzled Jean at first, for he had never mentioned to Marco, _never had an opportunity_ , to tell him Reiner was one of their own. Perhaps Marco had always known, Jean thought, Reiner’s presence among his own tribe harbored conversation, his fair skin and golden eyes stood out among bronze skin. Marco did quick work of telling Reiner that Jean would travel with the other Escót visitors to his home territory, and if Reiner would like to, to accompany them.

 

“There’s another,” Marco told him, “another like us… if you would like to meet him.”

 

Reiner agreed, of course, and news of their leave spread across the camp rapidly. When the day arrived that they would depart they were bombarded with farewells, both for the visiting tribe, and for their own. Jean could not feel any fear for the uncertainty he would encounter from finally leaving his home territory, after a lifetime of being too hesitant to even go beyond another boundary, he could only look at Marco and know he had promised not to let him go, and he would fulfill that promise because once he was not even granted the possibility.

 

The day before they were set to depart Marco asked Jean to take him to the lake just once more, neither knew when they would return with the Aleutsch, and neither could think of a more peaceful way to spend their last day in the territory. They did all they had done the previous time they had come to the lake, they swam, held hand to not drift too far apart, chased each other in the water until they created their own waves. Both heaving from the adrenaline and exhaust, they tumbled onto the shore, and with just one simple look, they latched onto each other like starved men.

 

Jean had nearly forgotten how sweet Marco tasted, feeling like it had been eternities since the last time they had touched and felt like this. Their last kiss, the one stolen by Marco in the forest, had been innocence and playfulness, but they don’t have the luxury of slow progressions, Marco having mentioned in one instance that the journey to the south was very long, tiring, with little privacy, and Jean that heard the subtle coyness behind Marco’s words.

 

Jean wonders if by aided by some memory Marco knows all the places on his body that make him yelp and wither in pleasure. The brunette holds Jean’s face in his hand like he is made of precious stone, drawing his thumbs back and forth across the planes of Jean’s cheeks and he kisses him deeply. Jean feels like he is being completely enclosed by Marco, his taste, his touch, his smell, his warmth, he wants to take in every part of him, let it settle in his chest and ooze out of every crevice and bone. When Marco kisses him he melts into the ground but he holds on to him just the same to feel like he isn’t slipping into some other plane of harmonious existence.

 

Marco continues to kiss Jean, licking into his mouth with desperation, yet still letting the boy below him to adjust to the new tricks. Jean responds to him apprehensively, and Marco believes it is because no one has had the luxury of kissing this boy before, he is unsure of his own movements, but still just as enthusiastic about them to mirror Marco the best he can. And he does, letting his lips press and move against Marco’s supple, kiss-bitten ones, letting them glide from slickness, and latch on with enough pressure to feel intoxicating. Jean lets his tongue give small flicks, feeling the heat come from Marco’s mouth, his own tongue feeling cool, and wet, and wonderful.

 

Marco only gives Jean precious moments to relish in the sensuous exploration of his mouth before he begins kissing downwards, the corner of his lips, his jaw, the side of his neck, licking a fat stripe on the very ridge of his throat. Marco feels how it bobs under his tongue, Jean physically swallowing from the attention, the fingers in Marcos hair tightening their fragile hold. Marco’s mouth dips lower, lips curving over Jean’s collarbones, prominent and beautiful, sucking one into his mouth to feel the shape of it below his teeth. Jean holds him even tighter.

 

Marco has never had the opportunity to discover another’s body in such a way, trusting him to touch and taste every part that he wanted, truthfully, he never had the true desire until he had met Jean. By every breath the Aleutsch takes, shaky and brief, every time he flinches into Marco by the hot press of his tongue on a piece of skin, the moments Jean’s fingers nearly tug at his hair, he _adores_ it. Marco did not have the luxury of being greedy with Jean’s company in the other world, when they had existed completely, and now he has been granted every right to it. Marco kisses where he bites, sucks in the skin, lets his tongue sooth over the redness.

 

“ _You’ll leave a bruise… Mar-co_.”

 

The brunette smiles, “Good.”

If it weren’t for the way Jean’s voice loses its resolves and he moans without reserve, Marco would stop, but Jean responds to him, every touch, skin growing hotter from the sheer reality that it is Marco that is doing this to him, making him fall apart on the forest floor, and he can barely separate his thoughts, he can only feel and know it is incredible, like fire, like blissful destruction inside him.

 

Marco’s mouth tastes more, stripes of slickness littering Jean’s body, the presence of them feeling cool whenever a gust glides faintly across his skin. Jean feels fingers follow the rippling of his ribs, each of Marco’s hands coming in and around his sides, touching the curves and dips of Jean’s body. Marco continues to kiss him, to suck below his bellybutton, letting his hot tongue press inside the indent, biting at the skin that hallows around the peaks of Jean’s hipbones. At a point Jean had closed his eyes, Marco’s beautiful assault too much for him to look at, it was too embarrassing to see the way his body shuddered, how he couldn’t stop the whines that Marco would elicit out of him by his tender exploits alone.

 

Marco runs his tongue even lower and Jean can’t help how his hips twitch, hiking up into the air, enough for his hardness to brush against Marco’s chest.

 

“Sorry,” his eyes snap open, fingers falling out of Marco’s hair from the mortification, his body trying to sit up, as if that would shield him at all from his vulnerable display.

 

Marco simply looks at him, one of those calming, serene smiles on his lips, and Jean is transfixed once again.

 

“It’s okay,” he whispers against the ashen blonde’s lips, letting their bottom ones catch against each other’s. He sees Jean lean in, practically starved for his touch, green eyes pleading into Marco’s and Marco would have to be mad to deny him.

 

They kiss with a ghost of a sound from Jean’s mouth, the groan being muddled right between the movement of their lips. Jean returns with more ambition, tugging Marco closer, the lull in their advancements making him hungrier for it, legs falling open to let Marco in just that much more. Marco still settles over Jean, legs on either side of his hips, licking and sucking where Jean’s mouth fails to, too lost in the sensation of Marco’s tongue slipping against his own.

 

“It’s okay,” Marco repeats, kissing down the column of Jean’s neck, blushing red, he finds Jean’s hand splayed against the forest floor, bringing it between his own legs, “I feel the same.”

 

Marco coaxes Jean’s fingers to wrap around his cock, hard and thick and leaking, Jean’s fingers still, simply testing the weight of Marco in his hand, and Marco finds his mouth again, kissing him desperately for some form of release. Jean’s hand begins to move, almost too suddenly, a whine ripping out of Marco’s throat, and Jean can taste it, he feels his hunger against his lips, in the pulse of his cock. The distraction it provides is enough for him to forget his own hesitance, because Marco had just wanted Jean to feel _him_ , to know there was no difference in their want for each other, it had always been there, coming out in differing forms, but always present and alive.

 

Jean moves his hand with more security, knowing what feels good, testing his own sensitive spots on Marco’s cock, in the groove on the underside of the head, his thumb catching any slickness that plumes out of Marco’s slit, coating his straining cock with his own pleasure, drawing back the foreskin in his tight hold. Marco lets a whine out, his breath hitching from the tightness surrounding his length, Jean’s wrist flicking and twisting so perfectly it’s a sin. Marco’s eyes had closed on instinct, perhaps when Jean had rubbed his thumb right against the tip of his head, enough for Marco to forget himself and let his body give way to the mesmerizing pressure Jean wanted to chase out of him, but Marco remembered why he had wanted Jean to bring him into the privacy of the forest, back to where they had first let their bodies touch and learn what their souls had never truly forgotten.

 

With all the strength he posses, Marco lets their lips part from each other’s, a little chirp from the departure making it sound even sweeter, Marco tenderly kisses and licks at the marks already starting to form on Jean’s paler skin, some will fade come tomorrow, others will remain to be seen by all. He follows the trail down, lingering in spots where Jean responded wonderfully to, testing them again to create another fruitful result. Jean doesn’t stop his own movements, the gradual rhythm he’s created making it harder for Marco to not simply fall to his knees, to let Jean work him until he’s shivering, but he draws his body even further down, Jean’s hand having to release its grip from the angle.

 

His legs are still open and Marco can marvel at how wonderful he looks, open and flushed, bones prodding out from beneath thin, pale skin. He’s divine, Marco can see the feint lines of veins clustering on the inside of his thighs, within his chest, he wants to map every trail, commit them all to memory he’s sure he must have done already, lifetimes and lifetimes repeatedly. Jean eyes find his, they’re glazed with arousal, blown out pupils swallowing dirty green, and Jean is pleading at him again, with a sheer look, with the way his breathing is coming out ragged from his open mouth, with how wide his legs are spread, twitching from the stretch. Marco’s eyes rove over Jean’s body, taking their time with each detail he may have missed, watching as Jean’s cock bobs against his stomach, straight and throbbing.

 

Marco takes it in hand, _he can’t help himself anymore_ , his mouth directly above it, and lets his saliva dribble out of his mouth and onto Jean’s cock.

 

“ _Ah-hhh… Marco_ ,” his hips twitch again, body going rigid into itself before it breaks, hips thrusting back into the feeling of Marco’s hand. Marco does quick work of covering Jean’s cock with his slickness, palm moving easier and faster from the treatment. Marco watches as Jean’s eyes have trouble staying open, eyelashes fluttering until they close completely, stifling his sounds once again, teeth biting into his bottom lip.

 

“I want to hear you,” Marco tells him, the request selfish, he wants to hear all the ways Jean sounds in pleasure.

 

Jean makes another pained sound with his throat and Marco can see the clear liquid that oozes out of his cock, he feels his own pulse, sweltering fire licking his insides, and he brings his mouth right over Jean’s blushing head, licking his precome right off the tip like thick honey. Jean’s hips rise off the ground just the slightest bit, head going back and digging into the ground, his neck straining at the angel and Marco can once again see the marks on his neck. Mine, he thinks in his lust, and he lets his mouth cover Jean’s tender cock completely.

 

“ _Oh—fuck_!”

 

Marco hums around him, both in appreciation and acknowledgment, the vibrations feeling only that much more earth shattering than the scorching heat of Marco’s incredible mouth. He licks fat, thick stripes up the underside, sucking on a side, thumb playing and rubbing at the head. Jean can’t keep up with the sensations, he can’t process them any better than before, they invade him and make him aching for anything Marco is willing to give him. He’s completely at the brunette’s mercy, so lost in lust and love he can’t last any longer.

 

“ _Marco_ ,” he tries to tell him, but somehow his hands have fallen back into the brunette’s soft hair, fingers running between strands, hips rocking but never pushing up. Marco almost wants him to, to hold his head in his hands, to let his body direct itself, candidly down and into Marco’s awaiting throat, the thought of it so desirable his own hands snakes down and around himself.

 

Jean hears Marco groan around him, his lips sucking down the very base of him, nose burying itself into his pubic bone, lips smacking as they slip off of him for only a second before the heat surrounds him again. Marco whimpers, mouth faltering, and Jean opens his eyes again, letting his weight settle on his elbows as he brings himself up. Marco’s red lips are slick and glistening, a dark blush against his cheeks, hair tousled from the work of Jean’s hands, and he can see how Marco’s strong arm flexes each time his wrist twists around his own erect cock.

 

“ _Fuck, Marco_ ,” he breathes at the vision, Marco stroking himself as he stuffs himself with Jean, “ _I can’t—Marco_ ,” he tries to tell him again.

 

Marco lets Jean’s slick head fall out of his mouth with a pop, stroking it with quick pumps, “It’s okay, Jean,” he tells him, voice sounding raw, both knowing exactly how it had gotten such a way, “I just want to make you feel good.”

 

“But you—“

 

“Later,” he says, hand still wrapped tight and bobbing around Jean, “you can steal me away and do anything you want to me.”

 

Jean groans at that, imagines himself doing this to Marco, kissing and licking him wherever he pleases, tasting and biting him, one day letting the brunette’s gorgeous, curved cock rest right up against his opening, teasing him before he lets it slide in, filling him and stretching him open until he’s keening and begging. He wants to know what Marco’s face will look like the second he pushes into him, eyes probably shutting from the tightness, biting his lip, breathing heavy, stomach going taut as he plunges into Jean like an animal in heat.

 

“ _I want… you_ —“ he tells Marco, that mouth coming back over his cock, sucking the very life out of him, and he knows he can’t tell him again, how he’s so hot, how the pressure is too much, he needs release now, it’s painful and incredible and he can’t stop the way his hips are chasing the pleasure anymore. The grip in Marco’s hair tightens considerably and Jean goes quiet, it’s enough of a signal for Marco to draw back, to watch in fascination as streaks of milky come splash against Jean’s stomach, almost making it as far as his pert nipples. Jean continues to whimper as Marco squeezes every last drop out of him, seeing Jean’s stomach coil with sensitivity, the straining skin looking as beautiful as blankets of snow. Marco finally stops his slow torture when Jean physically flinches away, air still rushing in and out of his lungs.

 

When Marco thinks he’s had enough time to collect himself, when Jean finally peaks out from the arm that he had thrown against his eyes, he’s smiling, big and dizzy, eyes glazed with something else entirely. Warmth rushes into Marco’s chest as Jean reaches out for him again, their mouths move slow and lazy, neither finding a reason for considerable effort, the mere press of their lips more than enough after such an experience. Jean feels nearly euphoric after knowing what Marco’s hands, mouth, what his entire heart feels like so open and accepting and practically gifted to Jean. He thinks of how tomorrow they will begin their journey, how another routine will start for Jean, but this time he can only feel peace and utter acceptance of it because Marco will be there with him, and Jean knows just how precious that fact alone is. Marco was taken from him prematurely once, he knows this from what his mind has pieced together, Marco did not live beyond one day, never to experience or see all that he desired, and perhaps it is Jean’s purpose to make sure this time, with each time their souls are recycled once again, to make it a priority that Marco _lives_.

 

He holds the brunette close at the thought, breathing in his hair, limbs still fluttering from sensitivity, I love you, he wants to tell him, but Jean knows they have days, weeks, months, even years to lead up to such a confession. Both feel it, the beauty of pure adoration for one another, but right now wouldn’t be the time for those words, Jean has the luxury to choose just the perfect moment for them, because there will be more moments, there will be a future with Marco.

 

Marco places even lazier kisses along Jean’s neck, each press of lips makes the ashen blond laugh, “How did that feel?” Marco asks him.

 

Jean snorts, “Do you really have to ask?”

 

He feels Marco hum below him, “No, your face was enough of a sign,” and Marco has to stop the hands that fly to Jean’s face to cover the deep splotches of red beginning to form on his cheeks.

 

“You don’t have to be shy,” Marco coos, looking down at Jean who is doing everything in his power to look away from him, pouting at something off in the distance.

 

“Jean,” Marco sings, hoping that will break his composure, he sees a twitch of a smile on his lips, “ _Jean_ ,” he continues, drawing closer to his face before he finally looks at him, another magnificent smile on his sharp face.

 

“You’re so beautiful,” Marco breathes, his private thought being betrayed by his mouth, he sees Jean’s features go blank in surprise, his eyes going back and forth into Marco’s, and finally he’s gaping at him, and Marco almost believes he’ll cry from the emotion.

 

“Kiss me,” and Marco can barely make out the whisper, his lips already feel tired from the countless attention he’s given Jean, but he simply can’t stop touching him, knowing he’s real.

 

“Aren’t you sick of it?” he asks him honestly, and Jean shakes his head.

 

“I’ll never get sick of you,” he tells him, hands running over Marco’s back to settle just below his shoulder blades, and Marco has half a mind to kiss Jean breathless again.

 

He does.

\---

 

When Reiner thinks of just how far he has traveled, he often can’t believe he’s had enough ambition to carry on. Coming from one the northern most territories, to now walking along with others to a their homeland in the south, he nearly can’t remember the hours spent wondering what all these new lands would look like, having only heard stories of them from elders and travelers alike. When the day finally comes where he’ll leave the Aleutsch and the lush evergreen, he cannot help but think of home, of those that have already found their others, of Erwin and Levi, of Jean and Marco, and possibly Armin and Eren.

 

He looks upon Jean and Marco as they walk the trail that will lead them south, watches as they walk closely, side by side, during some instances one of them reaches for the other’s hand, their fingers lacing together without a glance. It’s moments like those that Reiner has to look away, there’s a heaviness in his chest that feels similar to all those times he had to part from Armin, but that sense of loss is no longer tied to the blond anymore, but rather to an idea unfilled, one that kept his spirits high as the walked for miles upon miles searching, always searching, never finding.

 

Marco was gracious enough to ask him along, the look in his eyes serious when he had said it, Reiner would have agreed either way, but the determination in his brown eyes felt like something else, another feeling he could not place.

 

It will be weeks, he’s been told, until they near the warm Escót lands, the ones by the coast, and Reiner keeps his faith every step of the way, every accidental glance he gives the lovers ahead of him, he hopes he can find an ounce of the happiness they seem to radiate.

 

As he walks he feels the soft pull of a vision, drawn out in words that must mean something, _have to mean something_ , words he has never particularly heard before, but they play in his head like a gentle, murmuring lullaby, over and over again until he can practically feel them weighing heavy on his tongue. 

 

 _I’ll find you faster next time,_ they whisper in his mind.

 

_I promise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to two very dear readers who commented about how much they enjoy this story, and although this update took much longer than initially planned, I truly hope it was worth the wait.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reiner and Bertholdt.

Visions were understood to be fewer and far between as one grew older, the severity of them were not known to be any less debilitating, but the occurrence of them was lessened by a grand scale, offering the individual a prolonged sense of chaotic peace. Arguably, the weeks, even _months_ , between visions could be seen as charted mercy by the Gods, yet when that other world would present itself again, it always did in due time, the reality of it was almost as torturous to relive, those moments of wonderful ignorance tasted like the sweetest honey, only to have it slice the mouth raw once it landed on the tongue.

 

There was a vision, one Reiner saw with such frequency he believed it to be a memory, it was always the same, fairly short and familiar, yet each time he would find himself in front of the enormous imposing wall, he would wonder why he was there once again. He knew himself to be young in the vision, his stature to the ground, the clothing he wore were all details to another time, one in which he did not wear a uniform, was not constricted by the leathered straps of his maneuver gear, where scabbards and operative devices did not weigh heavy on his hips. He felt a weight, a simple pull on his back, a green cloak swaying nearly past his knees, boots keeping his feet warm.

 

This vision, with its reoccurrence, was not the only reason it felt so foreign each time he visited it. There was a sense of timelessness, where neither seconds nor minutes seemed to pass, where not even the wind appeared to blow. There was no murmuring of giants nearby, the vibrations of footsteps. Reiner simply looked at the wall, looming and soundly built to protect, to keep out. He looked at the individual bricks, the marvel of the construction, and child’s curiosity keeping his mind occupied in awe. Although he was inherently alone, physically confirmed as his eyes scanned to either side of him and across the horizon, he never felt loneliness. He was alone, but he truly never felt lonely. There was a presence he could not place, one that filled him with comfort, surrounded him as if it was air, like the lingering of a familiar touch that spread throughout his body with warmth. Where it came from, he could not fathom, but before he could begin to decipher the mystery of it, he would be pulled away from that world, brought back to his own with the consciousness of his eyes.

 

They were closer now, after miles and miles of walking, after days where the scenery would change progressively, to the stability it held now, it was only a short distance to the Escót lands, to uncertainty and a myriad of new faces, customs, a new territory, a new clan he never imagined to meet. He feels the excitement dance off the bodies of the southerners, Naran practically beams as he recalls the familiar trail, telling Reiner of all the places he wants him to see once they settle in the camp. Marco reminds his brother that there are still a few days before they reach it, and the nerves inside Reiner seem to spike and shrill with each day that passes.

 

His hope is carefully regulated, only letting bits and pieces surface when he feels a rush of anticipation, in quiet moments of the night when all others are asleep. His thoughts have kept him restless the last few days of the journey, eyes never seem to want to close, his mind jumping to visions and memories, of those he’s met and others he’s left behind. The uncertainty of what could possibly be waiting for him is the root of his anxiety, _is there anyone there for him_ , the candid looks Marco gives him as he does tasks for the group, as he eats, watching him for only seconds like there’s something he’s trying to tell him with his gentle expression. He can’t analyze it anymore than he does with his own reoccurring vision, the legends, the _pull_ he feels so strongly now. The reality will eat him alive if he lets it, and it had once, he can’t let that happen again.

 

Instead he does what is asked of him. He indulges Naran, telling him of his home in the north, stories of his hunting expeditions, his travels, chasing him in the brush until he catches him, wrapping him up in his arms until he can’t stop his fits of laughter.

 

He talks with Jean, when Marco if far enough away, Jean voices his worries, of being introduced to the Escót clan, how he will be received, if he’ll be enough for Marco, years from now. Reiner knows his friend is adjusting as best he can to the way the events in his life unfolded so quickly, he is still picking up the pieces as he goes. Marco has nothing but patience for him, he can see it whenever the brunette gazes at Jean with such adoration, as if he were the most pristine sight he had ever seen. He hears it during those still nights, the way Marco whispers reassurance into Jean’s ear, breathes it onto his skin, blows it into his mouth as they kiss, urgent and beautiful.

 

He talks to the stars as well. The closer they get to the Escót lands the more he can feel the comfortable heat, the wind against his skin as he is stretched against the bare ground feels like a sweet embrace. The thousands of stars twinkle and glow, and he can’t remember the legend behind their presence, fallen individuals, gods, their own souls resting in the heavens above. He speaks to them all the same, begs for health and happiness to all those precious to him, for safe travels, for Jean, for Marco, for Eren, Armin, Erwin, Levi. He asks when his own journey will be resolved, eyes close after sometime, the same vision of the wall, of comfort he cannot place.

 

Marco tells him that by this time tomorrow they will be in his homeland; by nightfall they will be in the camp. That _pull_ wracks his chest for the lapse of a heartbeat, but he continues with the group, Naran pulling his arm, Marco watching him from the corner of his eye for a few seconds longer than necessary.

 

\---

 

The stories he had heard of the southern lands do nothing to touch the tangibility of them, as they expand in miles before his eyes, hills and valleys grow in procession the further they trek into the territory. Green pastures have faded to browns, oranges, and colors further subdued, trees shrunken down to size where they become sparse between sightings. Bushes litter the ground, wild flowerings all over in every which direction. There’s a special beauty in the warmer, drier lands of the south that Reiner has never experienced, he feels his travels have come to full fruition, from the bitter cold of his homeland in the north, to the lush evergreen of the Aleutsch clan, to finally the deserted, minimal splendor of the Escót.

 

They pass the driest plateaus inland as they cover the final stretch of territory to the coast, and Reiner suddenly remembers he hasn’t seen the sea since he left home over a year ago. The succession of the group walk quietly, fatigued, hungry, but in good spirits as they are finally, after weeks, home. Reiner notes that Naran is quiet as well, holds his hand with a grip barely felt, walking with all determination his little legs have left. Whisperings between Jean and Marco to Reiner’s left have become quieted to nothing but the shuffling of their feet, Jean’s face was clad in anxieties bubbling to the surface, but has relaxed to a stern expression, one Reiner remembers from the first days Jean had lingered about the foreign brunette.

 

After a few more hours Reiner wants to let Naran ride on his back as he had begged him so many times, but declined since they have neared his home. Reiner thinks him to be at his breaking point, so tired in his pattered footsteps, sleepy eyes shifting to look up at Reiner with a gentle smile, freckles crinkling around his nose. The sight is so precious Reiner wants to scoop the boy in his arms, knowing he will only protest long enough before his limbs finally go still with the relief of sleep. But when his fingers tighten in his palm suddenly, eyes alert, and he finally feels the arm seem to spring with life as he is tugged along by the young boy, down a trail remembered and trekked lovingly by others before them. He feels thrill seem to shoot like a storm inside his bones, he wants to ask Naran what he is so exhilarated by, but the boy throws his head over a shoulder at his brother.

 

“It’s just over this hill, right Marco?” he doesn’t wait for a reply, just keeps pulling Reiner by the arm, his heart feels like it swelling, they’re both running now, the unwavering grip by those little fingers crumbles to mercy as Reiner watches the boy shoot in front of him, feet taking him up to the top of the hill.

 

“Hurry, Reiner! We’re home!” he hollers at him, jumping excitedly in place, and he looks like he’s on top of the world from the angle, on the very cusp of the brown horizon, sun falling to set on the final day of their journey.

 

With all the patience Naran can manage, he waits for Reiner to meet him at the top, yelling him encouragements along the way, although the others are starkly behind on their progress. When he finally takes the last tentative steps, he sees the expanse below them, closed off by valleys on all sides, a palette of warmth from the scorched hues of the sun, the ocean to the left hugging against the coast they have arrived to.

 

“Down there, you see those huts? That’s it, that’s where everyone else is. They’ve been waiting!” he tells him, taking him by the hand again, grip less tight, seeking comfort of some type.

 

“You shouldn’t keep them waiting anymore,” Reiner tells him, watching his smile become beaming, letting out a shrill cry of pure happiness as he begins down the descent.

 

Reiner looks behind at the others, Marco and Jean not too far from his position, fingers laced and dangling loosely between them, the same stern expression on Jean’s face from hours before. He’s sure he can only understand his worries to an extent, his own vary and cling to hope and the fluttering in his chest that hasn’t seemed to settle for days. He turns his attention back to Naran, watches him for only a short time as he runs down the slope with careful steps, no one else will give him the last rush of sheer courage he needs to take those same steps down to the Escót camp, he’s not sure he can even recall what that first step away from his own homeland had felt like. He imagines it feels the same as all the emotions welling up in his throat in this moment, terror, hope, triumph, happiness, adrenaline making each of them claw against his skin like a parasite, thump at the very base of his throat like an irregular pulse.

 

He finds his footing, feels like flying in the other world, the sensation of depravity from complete restriction is intoxicating, he’s traveling down, down, down until he feels the resistance leave the heels of his feet as they become horizontal with the flat ground. Naran carries him along in his elated trance until he hears Marco’s mother command her son to not take another step without her. Reiner looks down at Naran, bright smile gripping his lips, and he looks up at him and shrugs his little freckle-dusted shoulders. They wait for the group to join them, Naran taking tentative steps ahead, throwing careful glances back, his mother’s scowl at his relentless energy enough to contain him if only for moments longer.

 

When the group is finally a cluster of faces and bodies once again, Marco’s mother can only give her son a tired smile, “Okay, Naran, go ahead,” and he bolts like a fawn without a second to spare. The group walks at a sluggish pace and it allows Reiner further time to prepare himself, to take in the faintest details of the territory, the way that grass seems to cling in more fervor here, the way the air doesn’t smell like the salt from the sea quite yet, the way the thatched huts look up close as they approach them, how he _truly_ is so far from home.

 

The closer they get to the border of the camp the more clan members he can see appearing out of seemingly nowhere, Reiner sees some come out of the tall, square openings of the huts, others rise to their feet from their tasks, children come rushing at the sound of Naran’s voice of welcome, they have dark hair, dazzling brown skin in every shade, leg coverings still adorn the males, females wear attire similar to what he saw Akane wear when she had been arrived and been welcomed. He sees streaks of white against their skin, as his eyes adjust to the new faces, the new clan custom, he can see the white is of sun bleached shells, strung together through cordage into bracelets, anklets, necklaces, bare breasted women wearing them in a way he once saw Armin wear, in rows and rows of shells traveling from collarbones to navels.

 

As he watches them in careful curiosity he can feel their eyes on him, his skin lighter, his hair the color of the flower blooms he saw against the coast, eyes like the sun. He’s in stark contrast with them, but there is no contempt in their gazes, rather uncertainty, of why he’s here, of who is he, seemingly the only outsider among them.

 

But then he remembers.

 

“Brought yourself back some more sons there, Zorra? Thought you already had your hands full with this one?” a man approaches her, Naran clinging to his leg with all smiles. Reiner looks over to Marco’s mother, her smile relaxed, Marco’s similar in their familiarity. He pays Jean a glance, he’s frozen stiff, eyes wide, chest barely rising with controlled fear.

 

He sees Zorra brush her nose against the man’s, holding him for a few seconds in an embrace, whispering something into this ear. The man had his fingers in Naran’s hair, petting him and coddling him until those unknown words are told to him, his movements cease, his eyes rise and look at Marco, flicker to Jean, his shoulders become rigid before they relax. The air becomes stale between them all, all anyone can do is watch the exchange, as the man approaches Marco, embraces him at long last. He is taller than Marco, but only just, skin the same tone, features strikingly similar, hair curling into itself tighter than Marco’s soft strands.

 

“This is Jean,” Reiner can just barely hear Marco’s words, he supposes he shouldn’t try to decipher all that is happening in this precious second, it feels almost too private. Even with curious eyes on them, Jean does not waver, he takes the hand extended to him by the man, Marco’s father Reiner is sure, and he watches yet another welcoming exchange that must be purely native to the southern clans. Jean reaches for the arm, letting his palm rest against skin, thumb wrapping around the bend of muscle, his long fingers just brushing against the bend of his elbow. Marco’s father does the same to Jean’s slight arm, their arms locked in position for several seconds of confirmation.

 

“Welcome Jean,” he tells him after he gingerly lets go of his arm, Jean looks far too stunned to answer but he manages to thank the man, although his tone gives away much more.

 

“And your friend?” he asks directly to Marco, letting his eyes skate over Reiner as a clue.

 

He doesn’t know if he should answer for himself, if that would be considered rude from a stranger, he looks to Marco for any type of solace, and he smiles as him like he always does, “This is Reiner, he is a Ngruský from the north. He has been staying with the Aleutsch for sometime. That is where I met him, and _him_ ,” he explains, searching for Jean’s limp hand, giving him a reassuring squeeze between their fingers.

 

Marco only offers those details, neither Jean nor himself speak of their nature, they’re sure Marco’s father must understand the true relationships, he seems a smart, noble man, like his son. His father simply nods, a knowing expression on his face.

 

“Welcome Reiner, I’m glad your journey home was safe. Rest now, there is always enough room for more friends. Naran can show you to where you can stay,” Reiner wants to thank him, but can only bow his head in acknowledgement as he is pulled by the strong grip of Naran’s little hands.

 

“You can sleep next to me!” he tells Reiner, “Kikti might get you dirty, but he’s nice!” he continues and they walk through what feels like mazes of thatched huts. Some clan members call out to Naran, welcoming him, asking who his friend is as they pass, he tells them Reiner needs rest, and continues on.

 

They reach hut that looks similar to the rest, although it is on the very border of the camp. Reiner can see pottery and baskets outside the entrance, remembers the distinct style Zorra created and traded with the Aleutsch. Her goods are like another welcoming, familiar, comforting, a _home_. He hears Naran make a grunt of relief, disappearing inside the spacious hut, but from the corner of his eyes Reiner sees another figure in the distance. His bones feel like they could dissolve from fatigue, the journey on his body was taxing and he almost feels as though his eyes could betray him, that there wasn’t someone truly out there in the open expanse of land.

 

But he can’t help his curiosity, he could just follow Naran inside his home, collapse onto the ground and sleep for days. But that pull, it holds him in place, he looks over, sees the tall stature of an individual. Details escape Reiner from the distance, but he can see the bare, brown skin stretched against muscle, dark, straight hair that falls past ears, his arm is stretched out to the sky. Reiner waits, watches him with utter fascination, hears a shriek from the heavens, then a bird of some type, a hawk perhaps, flutters its wings above him before in perches itself on his forearm. He lowers his arm to a more comfortable level, where the bird is only inches away from him, humming, head turning to every direction with speed. Reiner can feel those small, sharp eyes land on him, in only seconds the stranger turns, just over the shoulder and Reiner isn’t sure if he can command time can stand still by a wish.

 

“Naran,” he calls, “who is that?”

 

He hears a hum somewhere inside the hut, the boy comes out, resting against Reiner's taller build, eyes following the blonde’s line of sight.

 

“That’s Bertholdt. He’s nice, but he doesn’t talk much,” he breathes easily, running back into the hut, telling Reiner to get inside.

 

Those eyes, too far away to see their color and depth, _his_ eyes, turn away first, head beaconing back to the horizon, and air seems to finally return to Reiner’s lungs, like relief, like promise.

 

He doesn’t let himself linger, follows Naran into the hut as he tests the name in his head, molds it on his tongue with careful practice.

 

 _Bertholdt_. 

\---

 

The light wakes him. He can hear the rustle of leaves from above, sunshine filtering between branches, hitting his eyes perfectly every few seconds, wind sweeping across his face gently with careful grazes. He can feel the discomfort in his arm, being used as his pillow for what feels like a great deal of time. His eyes open slowly, drowsiness making it difficult to want to move at all, let alone allow his mind to begin to piece together his unfamiliar surroundings. This is not the hut he had fallen asleep in, the clothes that cling to him and warm him are not the coverings he’s worn for months. It’s a vision, one of leisure he presumes, sleeping under a tree, not unwelcome, but unusual all the same.

 

When he’s spoken to others about his visions, to Erwin, to Armin, to the rest, there was a consensus that they followed a chain of memories, ones that would be revisited, the order would skip, childhood, to adulthood and back. Yet over the years an understanding would be reached, of the general life once lived, of what it could have meant, the significance of all their lives, interwoven in time, each differing in duty and experience, distinctly separated for reasons unknown.

 

He’s been a soldier, riding horseback in forests, standing on top of trees, flying, fighting, killing, a child standing in front of a wall, walking through villages, a knapsack of supplies strapped to his back. But _this_ , dozing under the shade of a tree without a care to the chaos that had gripped his mind for years, _this_ feels like nothing else, _this_ has never happened before. There’s unease, but no fear, there’s comfort still lingering all around him, he feels safe, that presence he can’t explain.

 

His eyes finally remain open to truly take in his surroundings, he blinks a few times, rises to let his forearms carry his weight, angling his head up to get a better look. When he's satisfied he lets his weight release on itself once again, head being cushioned by his arms, eyes closing in a sensation of peace.

 

“Don’t fall asleep on me again,” a voice alerts him, makes him jolt with attention, turning his whole body against the ground to look, too absorbed in the sheer astounding detail of it all that he doesn’t realize what it means, not yet.

 

When Reiner looks at him, truly looks at him, his back resting against the tree trunk, one leg extended in front of him, the other bent, forearm placed above his knee, he realizes he’s close enough to see the color of his eyes. They’re green, not just any shade, they’re not light and dirty like Jean’s, not bright and vivid like Eren’s, they’re dark, almost subdued. His eyes, they’re the color of the forest at twilight, the deep, depth of the ocean, they’re the grass when there is still enough light to see it, they reflect life in a kindred, quiet sense, just on the cusp of darkness, when it still clings to the last rays of a remembered day. Those eyes watch him with patience as he gapes at the boy in front of him, younger, and smaller, hair shorter than the vague details he had seen of him from across the distance.

“Bertholdt?” he knows the answer, but his lips still form the question. Visions, stories, memories, emotions all flood into him, racing in his veins like the very blood that feels like ice.

 

“Are you still tired?” he asks him, so casually it almost makes him sick. He can’t possibly be the only one, his bones feel like they’re vibrating, like they’d shatter from tension, he can’t be the only one who feels bile in his throat, feels his pulse want to burst out of every rise and crevice of his skin.

 

“ _You_ —“ he begins, he doesn’t know what else to say, _he can’t be the only one._

 

“You—“ he tries again, hears his own voice crack with emotion, he still doesn’t know what to say, _what can he say_ , _what is he suppose to feel?_

“You found me,” Bertholdt tells him, tone full of certainty that Reiner can’t do anything but believe him.

 

“I did?” he still asks, blood still ice, pulse still drumming inside him, relief waiting to wash over, _he can feel it_ , he wants it too, so desperately, so much it hurts.

 

_I’ll find you faster next time._

_I promise._

“You did,” Bertholdt’s voice is so soft, so serene with calm, _that’s where it comes from_ , and he keeps nodding, keeps showing Reiner _yes, yes, everything, yes._

He doesn’t know when his eyes slip close, he thinks they may never have, but he’s pulled away from a revelation, plucked from such a fragile moment without any advancement, nothing but the earth shattering tranquility of discovering, of being found himself, of searching, always searching, and finally finding.

 

\---

 

When he wakes he’s told he has been asleep for nearly two days, as if in a trance, unmoving and reverent, only shifting slightly every few hours, eyes shut tight. He still feels bone-tired, exhausted for entirely differing circumstances, limbs feel heavy with worry, mind still reeling. He carries on with idle chatter, _I thought you died_ , Naran tells him when he leaves the comfort of the hut, Zorra kind enough to have saved him food from the morning. The camp looks different in the early afternoon, buzzing with life, tasks, preparations, families, history Reiner knows nothing about. He feel eyes still watch him as he moves around the camp, a stranger to its workings, were he not so panicked, on the very edge of letting his nerves rattle him to nothing but a mess of sobs, he would engage with them, introduce himself to others.

 

But he simply _can’t,_ not today, not after all this. He can only laugh at himself in self-deprecation, remembering how panicked Jean looked when he told him of Marco, how utterly terrified he was, eyes wide with alertness, his hand trembling slightly as he stretched it out to gasp onto Reiner and pull him to the privacy of the brush, speech clipped with anxiety as he asked about Erwin and Levi, _how did they know, Reiner?_

 

He remembers the painful desperation in Jean’s voice as he asked, he can amplify it, he feels the roughness of the tone in his chest, he saw the fear in this murky eyes as they skated back and forth against his own face as he explained everything he could, hoping Jean could find some type of solace in his words. He didn’t truly know what Jean wanted to hear, some sort of comfort in stories _he_ had heard time and time again, of the legends, of just one instance where they had come true, chaotic and complex as Erwin and Levi’s journey had been, it was the only sense of promise, of _hope_ they knew. Of course they knew how precious that example of reality was, it was the only single ember of a blaze they were somehow consumed in, it danced in front of them, the vicious destruction of it evident, but still, they wanted the dangerous comfort of the warmth. They were starved for it, after years, after how many centuries of their souls recycled through time, could it be they grow hungrier each time?

 

That hunger drove Jean to seek out Marco, in his own careful way, was what drove Eren to territories unknown, what made Reiner press on after countless miles, until he could barley recall what sunrises in his snowy homeland looked like. That hunger, that _pull_ , whatever that unnerving sense of destiny was, it made him want to scream, after so long, after so many years of controlling that roaring _guilt_ he kept buried deep inside himself. There were times he wouldn’t remember who he was, _qual’a’tao_ , he would carry on as a hunter for his people, so wonderfully blissful in his naivety, until visions would come to him again of fantastical, horrible monsters, of himself as a soldier, a warrior. It broke him so many times, rattled every essence of the simple life he tried to grasp together with hopeless fingers, _this isn’t me_ , he remembered he would tell himself, _this isn’t real._

Looking at Bertholdt, seeing his deep, beautiful eyes, it was like all those times he remembered, made tears want to leak out of his eyes in frustration and terror, but his voice, the smooth rhythm of it filled him with something else entirely. It was like a ringing in his ear, a noise he had heard before, a song he had forgotten until someone began the first notes.

 

_I’ll find you faster next time._

_I promise._

 

Slumped in his own predicaments he searched for Marco, or Jean, at this point he didn’t care. They were speaking with a face Reiner couldn’t recall from the day, _days_ , before. The tightness in Jean’s face had seemed to have relaxed, but he was still in close proximity to Marco, and by the feint twitching of his hands retching themselves in their hold Reiner could note how he was still not all together content with the attention. Jean was the first to turn, seeking a noise of distraction, he must have noted Reiner's own pleading face, whispering Marco’s name to call out his notice. Then they were both turned to him, watching with worried expressions as he came closer, he couldn’t feel his own feet hit the ground, not the wind against his face, only the progressive beating of his heart, his blood ice again.

 

“What’s wrong?” Marco was the first to ask, stepping closer to the taller blond, Reiner must have stopped moving somewhere along the way, he doesn’t know.

 

“Where is he?” is all he can ask, waiting as seconds pass, the worry on Marco’s face spiking, his head shaking because he simply doesn’t understand. The brunette looks over at Jean, as if he somehow knows what their friend means to say, but he offers no help, the crease in his forehead becoming deeper. He comes closer.

 

“Who, Reiner?” Jean asks, voice soft and slow, as if he were speaking to a child.

 

Reiner looks between them, the simple fact that they have _no idea_ what has happened to him unnerves him even more. But they’ve felt this before, he knows, they were both as panicked as he is when they had seen it, felt it. But his friends can only help him with pieces of this, the rest is his own doing, _you wanted this_ , he reminds himself.

 

“Bertholdt.”

 

He watches the way the delicate freckles against Marco’s skin relax in comprehension, his face softens in shock, brown eyes grow wide for only a second before he controls his composure.

 

“Oh, _Reiner,_ ” he breathes, he knows, it’s evident. He had brought the blond to his own territory on just a possibility, but he is starting to harbor his own guilt that it’s all unfolded before he could help, before he could introduce them properly, before they could simply _talk_ without any looming concerns overhead. Perhaps it wouldn’t have gone as sweetly as he imagined, he knows Bertholdt isn’t one for idle chatter, he wouldn’t offer much discussion, but he would be patient and well mannered as always with Reiner’s attempts. If he had thought of the implications with more realism, he may have avoided the pained quiver in Reiner’s tone as he spoke his oldest friend’s name.

 

“He left,” Marco begins, guilt tracing lines against the veins of his heart, “—he left yesterday in the morning.”

 

He hears the words, they register in his mind, but he doesn’t want them to. He doesn’t want to understand what Marco is telling him, he doesn’t want to believe it. Something drops within his stomach, just keeps falling, he can feel it ooze inside him with deliberate slowness.

 

“He’s not coming back…” he whispers, eyes scanning, looking nowhere, at nothing.

 

“Reiner, _no_ , he will—“ he quickly tells him, stepping closer, looking into his face directly, “He’ll come back, he went with hunters, he’ll come back in a few days. I promise,” he feels the weight of Marco’s hand on his bare shoulder, comfort trying to emanate from such a simple gesture.

 

There are times when Reiner needs to tell himself this _is_ real, screams it in his mind, just a reminder to not escape back into the fabrications of its depths, to not forget his realities when he feels it’s all too much to bear. The ignorance is so intoxicating, he remembers that as well, no matter what Erwin would tell him those nights he would sob from the visions, he’s sure that given the choice many of them would rather forget the pain.

 

This is one of those times.

 

 _This is real_ , he begins, mind already doing its best to hold onto the moment.

 

_This is real. I am real. Bertholdt is real. He’ll come back. This is real._

_\---_

He asks Zorra for a favor, the only thing he has asked of her since it was known that he would going to accompany them on their excursion home. The brunette took an immediate liking to the tall blond, never complaining about the miles, or the heat, or Naran’s persistence interest in _everything_ , clinging to his arm, weighing on his back as the blond carried him securely. When she gave him tasks to do, he would do them, without a remark, he did them quickly and diligently, always asking if she needed anything else of him, not simply to be kind, but because he truly wanted to help those that needed it. So when he came to her with redness still in his eyes, air somber although he did his best to hide it with a smile, he asked what he could help her with, and as good natured as she recognized Reiner to be, she knew he was truly looking for a distraction.

 

He did not leave her side that first day, pulling reeds apart, bundling them up per her orders, bringing her this and that, feeding Naran when he came back from visiting his friends. He immersed himself in the work she gave him, but his eyes looked lost, his mind was somewhere else, further from where she could even begin to imagine. When Jean and Marco came to the hut at twilight, she pulled them both aside before they could enter. She expressed her concern, watched as both their faces fell to worry.

 

“It’s Bertholdt,” Jean voiced, unsure of how to word it all, how to explain the situation with enough delicacy, “he’s Reiner’s _other_.”

 

Her intake of breath is short with shock, “But he just left, Reiner’s been asleep, how…”

 

“He saw him when he had first arrived, Naran told me that he had asked him who he was. That was it,” Marco tells her, his voice quiet.

 

The two boys see a hand cover Zorra’s mouth, in disbelief, in astonishment, in pity, something between all three. She doesn’t know what to say, yet all of Reiner’s actions throughout the day make all the more sense to her. She had thought he was possibly just intimidated by being in new surroundings, that was just simply too shy to want to be around others, terribly homesick perhaps. She isn’t sure why she hadn’t realized all possibilities, but how _could_ she have? Reiner had been asleep for nearly two days, she had checked his temperature all throughout, making sure his breathing was still even and fluid.

 

“That poor boy,” she whispers between her fingers, she can only understand so much of what he must be feeling, having only heard limited accounts from Marco of the other world, the chaos, the decay, the pure terror, Jean told her of that during nights that Marco slept silently beside them. From the legends she knows how much these individuals struggle, divided between two worlds, their only solace found in deft hands that can hold the true weight of their heavy hearts. She thought they were tall tales when she was a girl, but when she discovered her own son was bestowed this life, she began to believe that these were not mere stories. And when she realized that those deft fingers belonged to Jean, when she saw the adoring way he would look at Marco, the way he _still_ looks at him, she could do nothing but believe.

 

She wants to ask them what would possess Bertholdt to leave, for Marco knows the boy better than herself in many instances, but she is sure they don’t have an answer, their expressions haven’t changed. Bertholdt is quiet, reserved, but dependable, honest, good, and responsible. His parents died when he was in his fifteenth seasoned year, and Zorra could only think to welcome him into her own home, become part of her small family, but the boy surprised everyone with his own actions. He left the hut he shared with his parents, let it wither away until it collapsed without the proper upkeep. He built his own hut in a day, just a short ways away from where his family had carved out a small patch of land for themselves, he became quieter after their death, more drawn into himself, but he pressed on, hunting just the same, speaking to the elders about his visions, nursing a fledgling that had been abandoned by its mother. 

 

She wonders if it was just too much for Bertholdt, he has gone through so much within his life, perhaps he just couldn’t face this with the same courage. He fled with the opportunity, she can’t blame him for it, but Reiner doesn’t have such a luxury. They all know this, so they keep him close.

 

The following day Marco gives him a proper tour of the camp, he had been inundated with questions upon Reiner’s arrival, his own patience being tested by the number of times he had to explain the alien presence of his friend, then that of Jean. It had been three days since they all had arrived after their expedition with the Aleutsch, the excited state around the camp because of the new arrivals had simmered to only a soft buzzing. When Marco guided Reiner around the camp his clan members were far more sensitive of his company compared to days previous, staying clear of intimate, intrusive questions, some pulling the first true smiles from the northerner with their crude, brash humor. Reiner seemed to enjoy it all the same, meeting with most of the clan members that day, sitting and talking with a few for sometime. Marco never rushed his friend, always mindful of exactly why he was familiarizing him with his own homeland, as an introduction, as a distraction.

 

He watched him all throughout that day, careful to only do it when Reiner was truly immersed. Marco was unsure of what he was looking for, a break in his composure, a distanced expression, that Reiner would confide in him enough to express his troubles. But he did nothing of the sort, carried on, not as if _nothing_ was burdening him, but as if it didn’t weigh more than he wanted others to know. Marco could only imagine how different his reality could have been had Jean not returned to him as he had promised the next day, after only having known each other for a few precious hours, Jean could have fled from the reality of their situation, but he was so grateful that he hadn’t.

 

He watches Reiner for signs of distress, but only finds hints of progression. They come slowly, not all at once, only for fleeting seconds, but it is enough of a confirmation that his friend is far stronger than he believed him to be, but he cannot forget the look of pure helplessness he had seen when he believed Bertholdt had left, solely because of him. He is no fool to think that Reiner has simply forgotten his pain, that he is steps toward the stability he once held, the knowledge he has now has done nothing but shatter all the tepid peace he had created for himself after years of visions and chaos hidden deep in his mind. Marco knows this, had been through it before, is still struggling over the realization that one day Jean simply appeared to him, like a miracle out of air, and somehow, after years of being torn apart by the lecherous jaws of monsters, he has the steady heartbeat of another to his back, an arm draped over him to keep him safe even in his sleep.

 

He hopes Reiner can feel just how wonderful it is to know that someone was meticulously created for you, be in as punishment or gift from the gods. He truly hopes Reiner can feel and see and taste how breathtaking it is for another to want to understand all that goes on in your mind, to know why you are the way you are, what has happened in your life to make you such a way, and what they can do to help, if only it is to simply listen. Reiner has traveled too far for that chance to slip away from him, that is what pains Marco the most, he prays Reiner hasn’t lost that hope that carried him across lands to this very destination. That is what he watches for, what they all watch for in the blond, that his spirit doesn’t break in front of them.

 

Naran helps as well. He is far too young to understand the complexities, but he senses unrest within the northerner that he believes to be his brother. During the following days, when Reiner is completing tasks that Zorra assigned him, Naran brings him the smallest comfort he can.

 

“She was the only one who came out like this! Now you can take the snow with you!” he puts a small, white puppy into the blonde’s lap, stepping back to watch his reaction.

 

Zorra, Jean, and Marco all go quiet, watching Reiner as they all have been doing these last few days, although now they do their best to hold back the smiles that try to escape their tight lips.

 

The small, snow-white puppy looks all around, then up at Reiner. He brings both arms carefully around her small form, cradling her to his stomach. He smiles, slowly and sweetly, and Marco notes it’s another hitch in progress.

 

“What do you want to name her?” he asks Naran, letting the boy step close to him again, nuzzling the top of the pup’s head with his little fingers.

 

“You get to name her, she’s for you!”

 

“But this is a gift from you, I think we should pick a name for her together,” Reiner reasons.

 

Naran hums, “okay!” and for the next few hours they list names, dismissing them until after the sun has gone down on another day.

 

“Vona,” Reiner suggests after they are all tucked into the hut, sleep enticing their tired eyes.

 

“What does that mean?” Naran whispers, his figure curled into Reiner’s, the pup between the two.

 

“It’s a word from my homeland, from a very old language. It means hope.”

 

Naran yawns loudly, further snuggling into the warmth of Reiner’s skin. He laughs at the precociousness of the boy, petting his hair in affection, waiting for his verdict.

 

“I like it,” he finally says, voice slurred with sleep.

 

Reiner does too.

 

\---

 

Distance proves as no grand obstacle, Reiner sees Bertholdt again far too soon, far too easily. It almost angers him how gracefully the visions seem to come to him now, sweep into his mind like an old friend, burrowing into his thoughts effortlessly, fluid like the ocean, like the air, as easy as he breathes.

 

He has known visions to come to him while he is conscious, the power of them not as fierce as when he surrenders body and mind to sleep, but the regularity of them since his arrival in the southern territory has increased exponentially. They pull at his mind as he is doing tasks, walking from one end of the camp to the other, watching as the night fires burn out from the hut he shares. He welcomes the ease of the visions, having experienced so much turmoil in the other world, for _years_ , years of bloody, gutted anarchy at the hands of himself and those monsters, he is finally granted a sense of prolonged peace.

 

The peace, however, is bittersweet. He now knows the very essence of where it exudes, that wonderful sense of comfort he felt as he looked at the looming wall in the other world, all those times the vision played like a loop, himself the constant, but present character, never feeling fear for his position, that satisfying warmth he felt in his very bones. He feels it when he sees Bertholdt, and there is no question in his mind he has felt it before, in the other world, when he believed he was utterly alone. He knows he never was, not truly. That boy, statuesque and lean, brown skin and deep, deep green eyes. He was always there, _has_ always been there, just out of reach, painfully, torturously out of reach.

 

He still is. Visions swim past Reiner’s eyes with such frequency, it is as if his mind is telling him _remember, remember, remember._ He watches Bertholdt, as children when they walk in step to a destination unknown, as trainees when they sneak from the barracks to a lake nearby, as soldiers when Bertholdt cries for reasons Reiner does not know. He touches Bertholdt, a shy tangle of fingers, a stroke of the hair from his eyes, a caress to the side of his oval face, his skin always scorching beneath his fingertips.

 

 _Just like mine_ , Reiner thinks.

 

 _Why did you leave me,_ he wonders with the same breath.

_Why did you only let me see you here._

_See you cry, laugh, smile._

_Why do you let me touch you._

_Why only here._

_Will you come back?_

_Please come back._

He clutches his thoughts tight with him, always on the very tip of his tongue, in one world, in the other. He wonders if Bertholdt has the same thoughts, both so blissful in another reality, where they both exist, but so far removed from the present. Reiner wonders if it is easier this way, only coming to know a stranger like this, in extended seconds and minutes, with careful touches and gentle looks, where surroundings are decided for them, no build up, no effort to _learn_ , but to familiarize, to accept.

 

It’s painful, and beautiful, peaceful, and consuming, and it eats away at him each day. He had asked Erwin what it was like, never truly satisfied with his response, it had sounded ordinary in execution, he thought by his words alone that he could imagine what it was suppose to feel like. But it is not until he has Bertholdt close—breathing in the scent of his dark hair, his arms cradling him flush against his body, neither knowing how they got in such a position, neither moving away, neither questioning it, simply _accepting it_ —does he finally understand. He could explain it in words if he tried, just as Erwin did, but they would never be even a droplet of the pure truth. It’s extraordinary and terrifying, never has he felt so conscious of himself, of another, because it simply isn’t just another individual, it’s _him,_ it’s Bertholdt. The steady drumming of the brunette’s heartbeat a reminder of exactly what he had traveled so many miles for, the reality of it makes him want to cry, in happiness and anguish because it’s almost enough.

 

But it isn’t. It still isn’t. Bertholdt had always been in the very depths of his mind, hidden by his own turmoil. He had _always_ been there, still is there, and only there. That blanket of comfort is such a teasing pleasure, given to Reiner only to feel its luxury in his mind, in that other world, never with his own rough hands, where time isn’t measured by visions, by how fast his eyes return to attention, where his mind doesn’t wander by its own accord.

 

His days seem to consist of nothing but this, a tender sedation where he clings so fiercely to those visions, each one exhausting him and satisfying him all the same. Each one a poignant reminder of what he sought for so long, but still cannot hope to have in full fruition. Each one more beautiful than the last because in each one he can see Bertholdt in a different light, growing and trusting, his spirit becoming so wonderfully open and honest, it does nothing but twist Reiner’s heart until it feels so heavy it drops to the pit of his stomach. With each vision it falls deeper, with each day it beings to fester.

 

Each day the same, each day painful in its simple reminder.

\---

Bertholdt wonders if he should have stayed. It seems as though each day, each hour, maybe every minute, he asks himself this same question. Of course he knows the answer, _of course_ he should have stayed. He knows this, it’s so plain, so inherently obvious. _Then why didn’t I?_ he asks himself that with the same routine, however more spiteful.

 

He finds his answer in the way Reiner’s fingertips graze against his skin as if he was made of the most precious stone. He never knew fulfillment could be so addicting, never knew what it felt like until he saw it in a boy that had eyes and hair like the sun. He had always believed he was impervious to that sensation, that it would never find him because it didn’t exist. The stories during the night fires, they were children’s fables, cautionary tales or creation stories, he didn’t pay them much mind, and put in even less effort analyzing them. One morning he simply woke covered in sweat, knowing he had seen _something_ , too tangible to have been a mere dream, but it wasn’t a vision, _it wasn’t._ But each night he was transplanted to another world, and he was stubborn in his belief, but after sometime he finally surrendered, knowing there was no room for error.

 

His parents were thrilled, his clan equally as congratulatory, he was the second in the camp to be realized as a _qual’a’tao_. The first with the honor was a boy dripping in sweetness, from his face, to his voice, to his manner. Bertholdt believed it was cruel that such a reality be bestowed on someone as good as Marco, but of course, the freckled boy didn’t see it as cynically. The two had never much to speak of, both the same age, but with such differing personalities, a simple friendship never occurred to them. But Marco was the first to approach him, truly speaking to him without an undertone of some reverent respect he didn’t deserve, still doesn’t believe he merits. Bertholdt had liked that about him instantly, Marco giving him enough space for comfort, never pushing him into one direction or another simply because they had a shared experience. Marco never believed the taller boy owed him the casualty of a conversation, he had never seemed the type to speak without purpose, being known among his clan for his timidity despite his gangly, looming figure.

 

Both differences between the boys seemed to encourage a friendship in the end, Marco finding tranquility in Bertholdt’s silent comfort, and Bertholdt finding peace in an easy companionship. It was the first for the taller boy, always clinging to his mother, walking with his companion dog within the camp, preferring to be by himself. He had always liked the stillness of his own company, away from the eyes of others, where he could dwell on his thoughts, walk miles from the camp without the disturbance of another trailing behind. His mother had often encouraged him to talk with the other children in their clan, but he never seemed to work up the courage, and when he did, he didn’t know what to say beyond a greeting. They looked at him strangely, he knew they didn’t mean to, their curiosity let their eyes wander, it held too long and he felt like it choked all the air out of him. He didn’t want to feel uneasy and he learned that he rarely did alone.

 

He only enjoyed a small number of years in borrowed peace before the visions began. If others had believed him to be timid before, the onslaught of the other world did nothing but burrow him in his mind even further. He didn’t wish to speak with anyone about it, not believing in the gravity of the visions himself, but when it was confirmed by the elders, he was subjected to their curiosity, questions, interpretations. He angered them, he knew by the way they squirmed in their positions, looked at him with tempered expressions, he never gave enough details, could never describe as eloquently as they wished. They would ask him about his visions for hours, it felt like punishment, he would become restless, unresponsive, bite at his nails for a distraction, pull at his hair, he never understood what they truly wanted from him, and he was defiant in his ways not to give them their satisfaction.

 

“I don’t know what they’re trying to prove,” he told Marco one day, both boys walking to the shores of the ocean for recreation.

 

“They’re just trying to understand, I think,” his tone was hopeful, it always seemed to be to Bertholdt.

 

“Understand what? It’s not as if they can really help,” he had mumbled, but Marco heard him, furrowing his eyebrows as if he had never thought of their situation in such a way. Perhaps he hadn’t, Bertholdt hoped it did not make him cryptic of the elders.

 

There had been talk of others like them in territories to the north, and as far as the true north of the frigid tundra. The most famous, however, was Armin, a _nemi-vökva_ , both like the others but very much something unique, cherished, and mystic. There was a strong leader in the north who was the first confirmed individual, had been plagued with visions for years, and the oldest _qual’a’tao_ among any. News of him trickled down all the way to the southlands, and it was believed that more would appear, all anyone could do was wait, elders watched toddlers and children carefully, mothers and fathers were told of possible warning signs, of night sweats, of nightmares, of insomnia in extreme cases. But for many years, there was nothing.

 

Then there was Armin, rumors followed of others in pockets, two per clan appearing, or solely one. After a few years there become three confirmed individuals in the north, two in the northeast, and finally, two in the south. News was slow to travel to the south, traders carried it with them throughout the long journey, if they chose to travel it to the dry, secluded lands at all. But those words are  _sacred_ , Marco never having felt that he was outcast by his own experiences, not like they were a punishment, and not quite like a divine blessing as the elders painted it, but news of other like him, like _them_ , is enough to give him a sense of hope. Bertholdt didn’t feel as though Marco had ever hated what was decided upon them, not like him, but those were not the stories the traders brought them of the others, not the terror, the anxiety, the self-hatred felt after gripping visions, where one can’t breathe enough air to steady compressed lungs, where cold spells wrack bones, where reality and the hallucinations in one’s mind are so blurred for the first few seconds that relief, _complete relief_ from it all seems the best option in those private moments. The traders never bring news of what Bertholdt has often wondered, if of them have gone mad from the visions, driven to insanity, where they could simply swim into the ocean, walk off a cliff, never to return.

 

But that knowledge, of others from years and years past is lost to him, to the elders as well. There are only legends, those never lost among wars and pestilence, and that is all they have. They know not what the visions mean, can only interpret them at a spiritual value, do not see them for what they are, a horrible burden he wishes on no one, not even the elders that seem so enthralled, positively thirsty for the other world. He never tells others of his thoughts, he knows that is not something to be shared easily, if at all. The elders would scold him, others would scowl at him for such slander, and he cannot bear to tell Marco of it, never wishing to make the boy’s genuine smile falter because of his own horrid thoughts. He keeps it all in his heart, that is where it is safest.

 

\---

 

His mother had not allowed him close when she became sick, he remembers being taken by others to be fed and to rest. The healers did not permit him to visit her, and when his father became ill with the same sickness, he was further protected against their fate. Bertholdt believed it was to preserve him, not solely for his safety, _they couldn’t lose someone so precious_. It was maddening to be away from them, his stability shaken from one day to the next. All the hours in between kept him alert with a drumming fear, he prayed that they would heal, that whatever had ravaged their bodies would simply disappear. They were childish hopes, but they did not seem so impossible to his growing mind.

 

They had found him in another’s hut with the news. They had died within minutes of each other, they were sorry for his loss, there would be a customary burial quickly, a night fire in their honor. He had heard their words, clearly, but they did not seem to want to register in his mind. It had felt like a strange dream at the time, all he could feel was the agony in his heart begin to swell, he thought it would burst in due time, all he could do was cry in selfishness. His own pain could not be masked, for once he couldn’t hold all that was inside himself. He left the hut, walking as far as he could make it before he held himself as he sobbed, until his eyes felt so aggravated from the constant wiping, his nose felt like fire, his entire body tired and heavy. No one searched for him in those hours, he couldn’t have been more grateful for the kindness.

 

They buried them the following morning, wearing their best goods, with dried herbs of purification, with songs and chants, with the beat of a prayer drum. He didn’t linger, he needed to do something with the restlessness of his mind, he couldn’t keep thinking that they were simply _gone_. He collected branches, bending and shaping them, collected reeds to weave into a pattern to cover the structure, building himself a new hut. It took hours, tedious labor that worked his bones and roughed his hands. No one asked him about it, no one offered to help, another kindness.

 

He remembered the night fire. There was more chanting, more drumming, more prayers that he couldn’t believe would be answered. He watched from a distance, still felt detached, still like he was in a dream. It felt much that way for sometime, he continued on with gathering, with speaking to the elders of his visions, with hunting. Marco still offered him quiet comfort, never pushing to speak about his pain, but even he still looked at him as if he was about to break. Much to his surprise, he never did, although there were many times he could feel himself teetering on the edge of insanity, of grief, of _something_. He remembered the times he would look at the waves for hours, up at the vast constellations of the sky, at the expanse of his homeland during the setting sun, and he couldn’t help but feel so small in comparison. He was so deep inside his own head that he didn’t believe there was much more beyond his territory, that there were emotions he hadn’t felt before, that there were experiences in his future that would amount to much.

 

He never indulged the idea of mutilation, or such an extreme as taking his own life. Sadness haunted him in his reality, terror drove him within his visions, and many times it felt like a hell, but he pressed on. He didn’t know what else to do but keep going, he realized that life continued on, the death of his parents did not stop time for even a second, and it wouldn’t stop for him either. But he had to remind himself of that fact just as often, as often as the sadness inside him wished to take over, he had to tell himself that it wouldn’t always feel this way, there were others like him. He had to cling to the small hope that they all felt this lost at times, he couldn’t be the only one.

 

He found comfort in the smallest of places one day. He had heard a chirping coming from a small cluster of trees, yet he went ahead with his tasks for the day, but the constant peeping did not falter. Finally, Bertholdt came closer to the trees, the constant sound leading him to a tiny fledgling on the ground, seemingly abandoned by its mother. After careful inspection, a further cries from the tuft of feathers, Bertholdt discovered that one of its wings was broken. Without a second doubt he carefully scooped the fledgling into his palms, bringing it back to his hut. He kept it in a woven basket, offered it food from his hunt of small game, offered it water from his clayed pots of water. With due time the fledgling grew, imprinting on Bertholdt, and they became inseparable. No one commented on their bond, how the bird would swoop in from nowhere, resting on the curve of Bertholdt’s shoulder, talons careful not to grip too hard, scars littering the skin beneath from when the bird had.

 

It was not until quite sometime later that Bertholdt chose to name the bird. He was afraid a day would come where it simply wouldn’t return and giving it a name would make it just the slightest more painful. He was uncertain the bird would even recognize a title so much as a name, but each day when the bird would return to him, he realized it didn’t want to get rid of Bertholdt so easily.

 

He decided on a word from a clan even further south from his own, where the lands were hotter, but rain was constant, transforming the terrain to lush forests and jungles. They still used words from generations past, languages that refused to be forgotten completely. When Bertholdt had met a trader from those territories he had greeted him customarily, gripping his arm as Bertholdt did the same, but he uttered a phrase he had never before heard.

 

“ _Layeni,”_ he had said, face serious, the sharpness of his cheekbones were as captivating as the language he spoke.

 

“ _Peace_ ,” he clarified when Bertholdt was silent.

 

He had remained with his clan for sometime, as quiet as Bertholdt himself, but all the more solemn. Yet, they understood each other in a way that did not involve words—sensory touch, glances, direct looks. He was the only who treaded into a region the taller boy had never let anyone else attempt, he knew not of all his grief and loss, never asked him questions of his past nor his position in his tribe. He relished in the anonymity, touching and kissing, his fingers were long and his touch was wet and hot on every part he allowed him. It was one of the few memories of his adolescence that he didn’t look upon with scorn, it was satisfying, one he often thought of that made him remember there was much more that he hadn’t experienced, and wished to.

 

He named the bird in his honor, in a sense, perhaps for the own peace it brought him. It was fitting all the same, and sometimes when Bertholdt calls for it, it comes.

 

\---

 

He is not sure if such a day exists where one wakes to suddenly be painfully aware that the emptiness of loss is not such all imposing sensation. He doesn’t actively search for it, he wishes for it each day, he _prays_ that one day it won’t hurt the way it does in that moment. But he is at a loss when that day arrives, quietly, _so gently_ that he is not truly aware of it himself. He thinks of his parents every day, still finds it so strange that it is not his mother’s voice that reminds him of this and that, that it is not his father who tells him to look into himself for strength—with the visions, with his own anxieties and fears. He misses them so desperately at times, there are instances when it gets much worse before he can continue to move forward, but he realizes one day, no extraordinary than any other, that when he thinks of them, it simply doesn’t hurt as terribly as it once did.

 

It takes time to reach such a conclusion, to simply feel stable once again, within his own mind, in his lanky, imposing body. Peace comes in waves, settling within his life like mild foam, then being pulled from him as if it was a natural inclination—as if he could never hope for such a luxury. But it does linger much longer as time passes, stays with him like a comfort, reeling back for less and less time, eventually, _finally_ , he begins to wonder again. He doesn’t look at the waves and know how easy it would be to give himself to the mystery of the ocean, doesn’t look to the stars and believe that we would return to the very one that brought him to this time. He looks at the clouds, watches their shapes shift over hours, looks at the flowers that grow against the grassy cliffs on the coast, listens to travelers and traders describe the other territories, with interest and the possibility of intent. Sweet tranquility settles his mind, lets him _feel_ all that had been numb to him for so long—the satisfaction of Layeni returning to him, the success of his own dependability, the way his body buzzed and bowed with lust at the presence of the traveler with skin such a beautiful brown that it almost appeared red.

 

He feels something more, something that grows as he lets the sadness drain from him, a drop each day. It’s a pull he had felt previously, one he did not understand before his parents had passed, one he briefly talked with Marco of, one he did not care to mention to the elders although they had alluded to a sensation similar. But within those years where his own transitions seem to carry a fluidity he never believed imaginable in years past, he can feel it growing, tugging at him more incessantly when he wakes from visions, when he hears of the territories spread above his own. He can feel it practically ripping through the fragility of his chest when the elders announce that they will make the journey to the Aleutsch territory. By the way his pulse burns in his ears, how his heart drums to its own frantic beat, he feels as though that should prompt him to attend the journey, to _finally_ do all that he had imagined in his head, what is making him ache to search for.

 

But all the restlessness seems to crumble before him, fear, as always, holds him in his place. He watches as Marco and others walk against the incline of the hill, disappearing over the mound without all the claws that seem to root him like a tree. Marco’s smile shines as bright as the sun, Naran mirroring it as he trails behind, waving at Bertholdt and the others who stay. He knows Marco is not simply going for the journey, for the experience of such a trek, but because he feels the pull as well, but unlike Bertholdt, he cannot ignore it any longer.

 

“There’s a chance…,” he had said, possibly explaining to the taller boy just why he was going, although he didn’t need to, they both knew his excuses were in vain.

 

“There’s two of them, neither paired. There’s a chance it’s one of them,” Bertholdt explained for him, the gravity of the situation suddenly uncomfortably tangible.

 

Marco had looked at him, his brown eyes shining with fearful hope, but there was such determination in the soft curvatures of his face, an expression that reflected his misgivings with the realm of possibilities that they lived in, how their lives has always been seen as a blessing in themselves, how guidance lacked, how the burdens of both worlds were shouldered among backs that sometimes fell the to the punishing weight from weak bones. Marco couldn’t linger on stories, on _possibilities_ , not when his mortality was chewed in front of him within his visions, a cruel reminder that once he did not have the luxury of another precious second.

 

Bertholdt envied the spirit Marco carried with him because it had made him decide in one fleeting moment that he could not remain in his own territory, he had to do _something_ , for himself, for the sake of his situation, for the _pull_ that was just another reminder to him, but it was something he, at the very least, could control in measured attempts. It was that spirit that drove him up and over the peak of the hill, until Bertholdt could not longer see the crown of his head over the flora.

 

He thought of Marco in his time away, of when the group would arrive at the other territory, if they had already. He hoped Marco would find what he was searching for, that the information that had trickled down to their land wasn’t outdated, that Marco wouldn’t travel so far to only be disappointed. Bertholdt hoped for many things in the time his friend was away, but most intimately he hoped for the consuming moment to finally arrive, when his fears would no longer do their best to silence the way his heart seemed to chase for _something_ , perhaps a memory he couldn’t remember, a sensation he longed for, the feel of hands that burned as hot as his own fingertips.

 

\---

 

He had once been told that his life was as natural as the seasons, as the wind and the sun. _Life creates life, and it continues on when we are no longer here to see it_ , someone had told him. His own soul had been birthed from the very stars, it was divine and cyclical, recycling itself throughout generations, beginning again and again. As he grew older he had believed those words to be comforts for a child who knew not of the travesties he would encounter because of simple fact that he was alive. Something had created him to see and feel and experience once again, he knew nothing of life before this, or what life would be like for him in another time. He only knew that he had lived previously, in another world with monsters and walls and destruction. Sometimes it felt as if that was all he knew, the world changed around him each time he was brought back to it—but that other world—that always seemed to remain constant in its chaos.

 

If his life was as natural as existence itself, then the way those yellow eyes looked at him felt as natural as the way the moon commands the tide in and out, every day and every night.

 

He was resting against the truck of a thick tree, shielded by the shade of all the leaves above. He couldn’t remember when he had fallen asleep, but that fact didn’t matter, because he was _here_ again, he knew that for certain. He heard rustling that was not from the wind against the leaves, and when he turned his head it felt as though his heart plummeted to his stomach. He saw the patch of bright, blond hair amidst the layers of clothing and the way his head was cradled in his arms. He moved in his sleep, just a small switch of bones, and then his breathing steadied again. He had his back towards him, but without a doubt in his mind, Bertholdt knew who he was.

 

They were the most fearful minutes in his life that he could remember, it was nothing like the panic of losing his parents, of learning to swim against the ocean currents, not like flying among buildings, or realizing he was the very thing he was fighting—it was unequivocally different in every sense. He had only seen him for a few solemn seconds previously, too far away to make out his features, yet his hair had shone the brightest with the sun. And here he was, smaller, silently sleeping among the grass, next to Bertholdt as if he had always been, as if they always been together. It was comforting and terrifying, he wanted to scream or cry, he wanted to run or gently weave his fingers through that beautiful blond hair. But he was petrified with his thoughts, all he could do was watch the way the boy’s body would rise and fall with his slumbered breathing, time felt like it stood still, every emotion pouring into Bertholdt that he believed he would never feel, some he couldn’t even put a name on.

 

The boy shifted again and a new string of terror licked through Bertholdt’s bones. He watches him fidget in place, raising himself up to put weight on his arms, looking toward his line of sight, back still to Bertholdt. After a few seconds he dropped to his previous position and something warmed in Bertholdt’s heart at the sight.

 

Words tumble out of his mouth before he can even think, “Don’t fall asleep on me again,” he tells him.

 

The boy turns, full-bodied, face angled up to look at Bertholdt’s sitting position. His face is unabashed, mouth slack in awe, eyes filled with wonder and panic that mirrors the kind Bertholdt is trying to hide within himself. Fondness floods into him—the boy’s eyes, his face, his pale skin—it feels like a dream, almost as familiar as a memory he can’t place in his mind just yet.

 

His voice creaks something wonderful, “Bertholdt?” it asks, and he doesn’t know how much more he can take.

 

“Are you still tired?” he asks him, he can’t stop talking to him, he doesn’t know what he’s saying, but his voice sounds controlled, and he tries to keep his face at peace from the revelation that is making his bones weak in the most tragic, beautiful way.

 

“ _You_ —“ the boy begins, his brow furrowing, eyes still gaping, he still looks so lost.

 

“You—“ he tries again, and Bertholdt hears his voice crack with _something_ , his breathing becoming broken and pleading.

“You found me,” he tells him, and he doesn’t know where it comes from, another memory he can’t place just yet, but it’s brimming at the surface, it comes from somewhere, with hushed whispers and promises and being melded together in every sense. He says it with certainty because he feels the pull, stronger than ever, and he wants to take this boy in his arms, wants to sob into his hair with such a relief he’s never felt.

 

“I did?” he asks, voice still so small, fear dissipating from those golden eyes so slowly, _yes_ , he wants to tell him, _yes you did, I’ve been waiting for you for eternities._

“You did,” he tells him instead, voice soft, barley above a whisper but it is resolute, and he finds himself nodding, shaking his head because he can’t even think to formulate words anymore, it’s finally too much, too beautiful, too wonderful, too shattering.

 

Too much that it’s taken from him, from them both, and before he can reach out to him, to Reiner, to soothe his worries, to assure him of everything his face can’t hide, he wakes instead to the sun just about to peak beyond the horizon. He feels robbed, empty from all the joyous sensations he had only seconds ago. He doesn’t know what to do with all he had just seen, all he had felt and learned, it sinks into his bones and all he can fathom doing is holding it, letting it rest there for the following days.

 

It grows during that time, and it weighs heaviest at night. He goes on with his actions, hunting and gathering with the group, walking to this location and that for materials, Layeni following him and keeping him company in his travels. He can almost forget the way his heart drums when he thinks of Reiner’s eyes, how his body physically aches when guilt begins to surge into him because he’s _here,_ because he’s not with him. Reiner must have believed he ran, and perhaps he did, in the back of his mind he knew that when he had looked at Reiner from across the distance that first time, _that only time_ , that he wasn’t simply a stranger.

 

The nights are like torture, sweet and just as tender, because he can see Reiner again and each time he’s mystified because the blond seems just as blissful to see him again. There is no scorn, no hateful words that Bertholdt waits for because he _deserves it_ , there are only careful touches, far too gentle than he deserves, the way his fingertips burn feel far too wonderful. They are in the barracks one night, by a lake the next, on horseback, in the trees, as boys, as soldiers, and at times Bertholdt can’t help but smile, others he finally sobs, and he feels the way Reiner cradles him as if he is as small as he feels. He feels the way Reiner breathes in the scent of his hair, nuzzles into it and it only makes Bertholdt weep all the more because it is so intimate, so familiar that it is maddening and he is suddenly starved for it.

 

He tries to hold onto each vision desperately, when he feels them slipping from his mind he wills them to keep going, _just for a little longer_ , he wants every moment with Reiner that time will allow, he doesn’t care if it’s selfish, he wants every touch, every breath, he wants anything he can get, anything the blond will allow him. And he gives him so much, he doesn’t know how it began, who was the braver of the two, but he wants to get lost in Reiner’s embrace just as much as he wants to hold him flush against him. He can only imagine how it will compare—if the blond will even _let_ him—when he returns. The thought alone brims more anxiety to Bertholdt’s conscious, gets carried with him, along with everything else as he follows the others on the familiar trail back.

 

The distance feels short, his feet feel as though they are dragging, his body feels like it is floating with his worries, head throbbing, pulse quickening the closer they trek. When he sees the scattering of huts across the territory his blood turns to ice, his entire body going cold with anticipation, but he continues on, as he always has.

 

His head is in a haze, he realizes he has never made it to his own quarters when he finds himself in front of Zorra, tending to a basket as she sits on the ground. She looks at him as if he were a ghost, but she is quick to react.

 

“Naran,” she hesitantly calls, only letting a few seconds pass before she calls to him again, “Come out here, please,” she insists.

 

Bertholdt sees his small figure emerge from the darkness of the hut, eyes darting to Bertholdt’s, same shocked expression as his mother.

 

“Go ahead,” Zorra tells him, tells Bertholdt, and it only takes him a few careful strides before the darkness envelopes him.

 

\---

 

Naran had come into the hut minutes before in an attempt to escape chores his mother had assigned him, he told her he was just checking on Reiner, taking a short break, and he had run into the hut before his mother could yank him by his skinny arm. Reiner had laughed, it had gotten easier to after a number of days, and Naran sat beside him, Vona yapping at the company. Naran played with the pup, letting her chase his fingers, jumping this way and that before she became tried from all the movement. Naran squealed in delight, quickly slapping his little hands over his mouth to muffle his excitement.

 

Reiner heard voices outside, it had been quiet before Naran had come to visit, but he paid them no mind until he heard Zorra’s voice, it almost sounded strained as she called for Naran. Even the boy looked puzzled, his mother’s plea to come out did not sound like her usual self, but he did as she asked and Reiner was left alone once again, his pup sleeping against his hip on the ground.

 

Reiner heard another exchange of words, they were quiet and muffled, but out of the corner of his eye he saw a shadow from the oval opening of the hut, the sunlight outside casting the silhouette into the ground before it. Reiner turned his head and watched as Bertholdt ducked past the opening, eyes scanning the hut until they fell on Reiner’s, just to the right of him.

 

He sat rooted to the spot on the ground, continued to watch as Bertholdt’s long, lean figure gracefully walked in front of him, lowered himself to his knees, further falling until his weight rested on the back of his legs, fingers resting in his lap, the gesture silently reverent. Reiner had seen the brunette countless times in his visions, but having him here, so tangible and close, those visions were nothing but a cruel tease of what reality could taste like. His eyes rove over details of the boy in front of him, his oval face, the gentle fall of his dark hair, the slight droop of his eyes, the shape of his nose, the spiced hue of his brown skin, the length and leanness of his limbs. Bertholdt is patient with him, letting Reiner simply look at him, as if he hadn’t ever done such a thing before.

 

Everything feels still and fragile, the air almost heavy with sentiment, Reiner never feeling satisfied with all the details and secrets Bertholdt holds, doesn’t know what to say, how to begin, can’t look away from the brunette’s eyes, finally placing them to memory, deciding that they look like the grass that would cling to the costal cliffs of his homeland.

 

 _Home,_ he thinks, _that’s what he reminds me of._

 

Reiner sees Bertholdt’s features soften, as if he had heard Reiner’s private thoughts, and he moves just the slightest bit closer. On instinct of some sort Reiner shrinks back, the bare skin of his back hitting the dry, woven reeds of the hut’s structure. Bertholdt feels as though he’s been stung, those kindred touches between the two in the other world, they don’t amount to the same in their reality, he feels like a fool for having thought they had.

 

Reiner’s eyes grow wide at his own actions, he didn’t mean for them to come across so brash, he sees pain flash across Bertholdt’s face for an instance before it’s controlled. He wants to reach out for him, but his body feels heavy with worry, he can’t seem to find the strength to move, he hopes the brunette won’t submit to defeat, its entirely too soon. Reiner pleads for him, with his eyes, with his expression, screams at him in his mind because he can’t lose him again, he can’t let him wither back to state where he doesn’t exist to Reiner.

 

Reiner creates a shortening in the gap, so minute, but it is enough to alert Bertholdt, his eyes sharp and calculating, searching Reiner’s face for something he knows is there because he’s _felt it_ , in the way Reiner has held him, breathed him in, touched him like he was made of brittle shards of pottery. He sees the way Reiner’s bare chest rises and falls, each breath a little more ragged than the last, as if it is hard to breathe, the air between them too stifling with inclination, with promise, and adoration pooling at the surface.

 

“Reiner,” he hears him say, a question, a plea, _it sounds so wonderful on his lips._

The blond finds himself nodding, never having felt so safe and trusting of another, never anything like this, and he watches Bertholdt draw nearer, long legs rising, knees scooting himself closer until they nearly touch the skin of Reiner’s crossed legs. His vision feels reduced to nothing but the boy in front of him, he hears not the sounds outside, he can’t confirm he is even breathing anymore, but his heart is drumming so quickly, positively drunk with the sight and smell and proximity of the brunette.

 

Reiner knows what he’s asking of him and he holds perfectly still as Bertholdt studies him, his eyes doing careful work, and he wonders if he should feel unnerved by such attention, how no detail seems to escape those green eyes, moving thoroughly across each bump and crevice. He should feel embarrassed, or perhaps even timid at the display but contentment seems to starve him of anything else, it fills him slow and warm, gets hotter as the minutes pass, Bertholdt’s eyes steady in the way they map every detail of the blond before him.

 

After sometime their eyes meet again, deep green and murky yellow, Reiner sees an arm extend towards him, and this time he doesn’t shy away. Bertholdt holds it there for a few seconds, more silent pleading, and Reiner nods his head again. He must have closed his eyes, he realizes, because all he feels are the warmth of the boy’s fingertips against the skin of his face, the touch feather light, almost painful with its hesitance. The touch doesn’t move and his eyes open, finding Bertholdt’s face closer, his entire body radiating warmth off his skin, so brown it nearly looks red in the light of the hut.

 

Finally those deft fingers move, their tips skimming against pale skin, palm resting against the sharpness of Reiner’s cheekbone, thumb moving so slowly across the plane of it. Reiner feels as if his skin is fluttering, vibrating like a bird’s rapid succession of wings, that hand moving down, down to the ridge of his jaw, further to his pulse at the side of his throat, Bertholdt can feel it beating like a drum. His eyes never leave him, watching every twitch of his face, every sharp intake of breath, especially when his thumb traces the tender skin at his jugular. Reiner doesn’t flinch, simply keeps looking at him with such wonder, becoming malleable in his hand, so trusting and open and compliant.

 

Another hand joins the other, following the same pattern, brushing Reiner’s cheek, traveling down, both palms placed gently against the sides of the blonde’s throat, fingers long enough to feel the softness of Reiner’s hair at the base of his neck. Bertholdt’s eyes see how translucent Reiner’s eyelashes appear up close, color is beginning to rise in his cheeks, how his lips part as if to speak, they look so pink and appear so soft. He finds himself leaning into their welcome, Reiner submitting himself to him, eyes still pleading, still so raw with emotion it’s almost agonizing to see.

 

He has to stop himself, as much as he wants to have Reiner close, after what feels like eternities apart, he knows it cannot be like this, there is too much say, too much they are disregarding for the selfishness of touch alone. He has so much to say to him, too much to explain because Reiner _deserves_ to know, and by the way those eyes look at him, on the brink of tears and something more, he knows he’s holding himself back, too afraid to say anything that will deter from the moment they are woven in. Instead his head falls, forehead resting against the ridge of Reiner’s shoulder, and he hears him take in another breath from shock, Bertholdt’s hands still around his neck.

 

“I’m sorry,” the brunette tells him, _for everything, for making you wait, for running away, for believing you should trust me so much._

 

He can feel Reiner shake his head, not in agreement, but the opposite.

 

“No,” he hears him whisper, broken with emotion, and Bertholdt feels arms wrap around him, somehow climbing into the blonde’s lap like a child. He had wanted space between the two, believed it to be for the best, it was too much too fast, he had told himself this only seconds ago, but Reiner holds him tighter, and his own arms wind themselves around the blond’s neck, head finding a spot of safety against his arm, nose breathing in the scent of Reiner’s skin.

 

Reiner doesn’t know how much time passes as they hold each other, clinging like the other will suddenly leave once more, as if expecting all of this to have been a merciless dream.  But the edges don’t begin to fade like in their visions, there is no limit, no destruction or worry, only their breathing falling into a collective rhythm, Bertholdt feels wetness fall onto his skin, and if Reiner can feel Bertholdt ‘s tears running down his neck, he doesn’t voice it.

 

\---

 

Naran finds them, less than a mile from the huts to collect reeds for Zorra, he had come running frantically, barely able to speak when he stopped in front of them.

 

“Bertholdt is back,” he puffs out, cheeks a little red from his excursions.

 

Marco looked at Jean first, his expression was as chilled as his own felt, without speaking they all made their way back to the camp, Jean holding the reeds they had managed to gather. Marco wanted to ask his brother if he any more information, but it would have been in vain, for he didn’t know the severity of the situation, only knew as much as he had seen.

 

When the boys reached the familiar hut they see Zorra outside, standing, basket abandoned, a good measure away from the hut as if she was creating a sense of privacy. She sees the boys, head snapping towards the sounds of hurried footsteps and immediately begins walking towards them, hand covering her mouth, much the same as when she had first heard of Reiner’s revelation.

 

“What’s happening?” Jean is the first to speak.

 

Zorra looks to Naran, who is peering up at her, anxious for a response as well. Ordinarily she would send him on a task for her, something to busy him while she spoke of matters he is still too young for, but she decides it is nothing he shouldn’t know.

 

“He’s been with Reiner,” she looks over at the hut, “ I haven’t seen him leave since he’s gone in.”

 

“Did he say anything?” Marco asks.

 

Zorra shakes her head before she reiterates, “No, it’s been quiet. I don’t know if I should—or maybe one of you…” she looks at them hopefully, for she is at a loss of how to handle the situation.

 

Marco looks over at Jean once again after a few silent seconds, he smiles very small, eye lingering. Jean catches him, knowing what is hidden beneath his expression, _understanding_. What follows is a private matter, not something they can hope to explain to Zorra, to anyone who simply isn’t like them, doesn’t have similar experiences of searching and discovering. There is nothing left for them to do, they had supported Reiner where he felt absence, had done anything they could to instill hope that perhaps he shouldn’t have possessed after so much. What is left is solely something Reiner and Bertholdt can maneuver, on their own terms, at their own pace, an area no one but them has any domain over. It’s thrilling, but terrifying, humbling and beautiful.

 

Zorra is still looking at the boys with anticipation. Marco thinks of his words before he speaks, but even then they come out jumbled.

 

“We can’t do anymore. What they need is time, and each other. _A lot_ of time.”

 

At that Jean snorts, self-deprecating perhaps, Marco is still learning all his sounds and what they mean. But still, Jean smiles at him, he’s gotten better at that.

 

“Are they going to be in there even _longer?_ Where will _I_ sleep?” Naran asks, the mood relaxing from its fragile hold. Everyone seems to breathe, time continuing, always continuing.

 

Jean runs a hand through Naran’s unruly hair, but the boy just puffs, unsatisfied with no one’s response.

 

\---

 

They do leave the hut after sometime, Reiner nods at them as the groups sit outside, their chatter ceasing at the sight of them. Bertholdt has the blonde’s hand in his, and after a few still seconds, he continues to lead Reiner to his own hut, further away from Zorra’s, nearly at another edge of the camp.

 

Reiner follows him, watching the way the muscles in his back move with each step he takes, how broad his shoulders are, the way they taper down to the slimness of his waist. Reiner has the sudden urge to wrap his arms around that waist, feel the naked skin of Bertholdt’s back against his chest, he wonders how many times he must have done just that, simply because he had wanted to, and he could. It feels oddly familiar in the disorientation of his memories, he knows he must have almost as much as he knows he had. It’s odd, so much of Bertholdt is familiar, yet each touch, each action, simply just _looking_ at him makes his mind go blank with awe that _this is him_ , after so much time, so many miles, _this is him_.

 

Lost in his thoughts he doesn’t realize they had arrived, Bertholdt squeezes the hand in his, the touch is light, but it has enough force to bring Reiner out of his mind.

 

“You can stay here if you like,” he tells Reiner, his voice smooth, and Reiner knows he hasn’t heard enough of it yet. From the time they have been together, those few short hours, they have hardly spoken at all. It doesn’t feel strange, however, the silence is comfortable in a way neither of them had expected.

 

Bertholdt invites him to a dinner of some type, but Reiner politely declines, he doesn’t have much of an appetite after all that had happened. Bertholdt seems to feel the same way, for he doesn’t eat either, both of them surrendering to the silence once again. Reiner takes the brief opportunity to look about the hut, Bertholdt’s hut, and finds there is not much inside, a large basket with further twigs and branches nestled inside of it off to the side, close to the entrance, various clayed pots are aligned along the back, a woven mat takes up a good amount of the ground, a furred blanket, sewed with different skins lies atop of that. In the middle stands Bertholdt, a tower of brown skin, dark hair and green eyes, lean, powerful muscles. He’s gorgeous in a way Reiner has never seen, perfect from the line of his nose to the slight pout of his lips. And he’s real, Reiner doesn’t even need to remind himself of that fact.

 

Not this time.

 

They gravitate towards each other without thinking, a touch on the shoulder, a stroke of the arm, fingers woven into longer hair, and Reiner learns that he has to look up to see Bertholdt’s expression, serene and focused solely on him, but he doesn’t mind. Doesn’t mind it at all when Bertholdt cards his hands through the blonde’s shorter locks, dragging his fingernails so gently against his scalp, all the way to the nape of the neck, cupping his throat without any pressure. He wonders if Bertholdt somehow always knew this about him, how much he loves the way those large hands wrap around him, how fragile he feels in front of the taller boy, completely at his mercy.

 

Bertholdt touches him as though he has never touched another, fingers lingering against skin, every caress gentle, eyes with a such fierce focus, trying to remember everything, where Reiner flushes most, what zones illicit responses, where it is too much, where it is not enough. The brunette learns in the most innocent sense, sensory touch and pressure, but every stroke burns delicious sores into Reiner’s skin, toes curling from the sensation, wonderful and slow.

 

Hours pass and neither remembers when they became tucked away beneath the furs, legs a mess of tangles, hearts open, minds clear for now. Reiner lies atop of Bertholdt’s arm, the same one where the fingers idly play with Reiner’s hair. His face is tucked into Bertholdt’s chest, one hand resting against the curve of his hip. When he talks, Reiner can feel the puffs of his words between the strands of his hair.

 

“Don’t you think it’s cruel,” he begins, voice quiet as if he was speaking to himself, “you traveled so far just to find this.”

 

Reiner doesn’t know what he means at first. If he is referring to the easy, immediate comfort between the two, the correct pair of arms he’s always been searching for, the miles and miles he walked from his homeland, or the fact, that after all his efforts, he found someone as broken as himself. There’s a sadness in Bertholdt that perhaps he will tell Reiner about one day, he hopes so at least, but it is apparent in the way he carries himself, he sees brief flashes of it in those green eyes. They are all broken, sliced different ways by their experiences, mangled and destroyed as much as they have allowed themselves to be. There is no doubt in Reiner’s mind that Bertholdt has suffered, more intently than himself if he were to guess, but that does not make him any less than what Reiner had hoped to find when he decided to let that pull drag him all the way down to the south. Of course it is cruel, of course he had wished it was easier, but there were many things in his life he had hoped for that never came to fruition. He thanks the heavens that Bertholdt had always been in his future, although many times Reiner doubted the Gods were that merciful.

 

“I promised that I would find you,” Reiner whispers against the brunette’s skin, “I don’t regret anything,” he adds.

 

Arms hug him tighter, and he clutches back.

 

More time passes before either speaks again. They don’t know if it’s late at night or early morning. Time will catch up to them eventually and they are happy in ignorant bliss.

 

“Do you think you made me that promise when we were kids?”

 

Reiner hums, “In the other world?”

 

Bertholdt makes a sound of affirmation that Reiner can feel come from his chest.

 

“Maybe,” he answers, voice light and far away, “I think I always knew I didn’t want to be without you.”

 

Bertholdt doesn’t say anything to that, and Reiner doesn’t expect him to. But Reiner doesn’t see the way in which the southerner’s mouth twitches, or feel how his heart swells with warm emotion at Reiner’s painfully honest words. All he can do is hold the blond just a bit tighter, cling onto him for a little longer to soothe any worries that start to creep back into his mind. Reiner is still a stranger to him in context, but against all his better judgments, he believes the northerner because he feels much the same way. With each press of their bodies he believes it more, with a slide of Reiner’s tongue he wants to drown in the cavity of his bleeding heart, and every time the blond looks at him with those eyes like the sun, he knows he’ll be a prisoner to them by morning.

 

\---

 

There is a gentle ease in the way they move around each other, the presence they have among one another, the simple way they look at each other. It is like relearning how to hunt after an injury, swimming after one had nearly drowned, playing with fire after one has been burned. It’s precious and careful, slow and feather light at first, slowly one becomes more daring, then eventually one forgets why they were ever afraid in the first place. Fear dissipates into a familiar comfort, the rest becomes second nature, waves crashing, air between the trees, sun setting into a warm glow. They both know they were happy before this, fulfilled in certain ways, but this is something they have never experienced, know they could never hope to duplicate with another, because, _because_ , there is simply no one else for them but each other, they were both tucked away in each other’s mind, blindly chasing for years in complete darkness, grabbing for whatever felt like it _could be_ , but it never was, not then, not until now.

 

When Reiner looks at Bertholdt it feels like remembering, the way his hair sways in the dry wind, the dip of his back, the swell of tight muscles, the shy way he peers past his eyelashes. He wonders how he could have ever forgotten someone so beautiful to him, in presence, in movement, in touch and taste. When he wakes he doesn’t know which world they are in, the other or their own, Bertholdt is everywhere now and Reiner could never have thought himself to be so lucky, surrounded by deep evergreen eyes, warms hands that clutch for him while he sleeps, warmer skin that feels divine next to his own. So much feels wonderfully familiar, but he realizes this boy is not the same within his visions, worlds have affected him differently, he has other fears, other atrocities done to his noble soul, some that he has learned within their first weeks together, others that don’t come until much later as whispers in the dark.

 

Much of what he learns of Bertholdt makes his chest feel as though it will cave in, both from sadness and elation. It doesn’t take long to realize the brunette is utterly alone, no family to support and watch over him, only the eyes of the clan that do all they can to look after their own, but only as much as Bertholdt allows himself. Where Reiner had his father, Erwin, Armin, his friends and family, Bertholdt had no one quite of the sort. He had Marco, Zorra, and a few others here and there, but when he rebuilt his life after the passing of his parents, he specifically chose to do it alone. Bertholdt had once told him _nothing felt quite right_ , and Reiner desperately wants to ask him how it feels now. The answer isn’t plain, not for either of them, and perhaps it can’t be explained with any words either of them can dream up, words are sometimes too harsh with a finality that doesn’t match all the complexities of their position. But when the brunette touches Reiner absentmindedly, just a passing stroke, a sweet press into his hair, he knows what he feels was worth every obstacle.

 

With the weeks that pass Reiner can only witness the progression between the two, he learns more of Bertholdt, not from Marco, not from members of the clan, but from the southerner himself. He meets Layeni, not too keen on the presence of Reiner in its home, but it passes without incident. Bertholdt meets Vona, the pup growing in Naran’s substitutive care, and when Reiner is settled enough, the pup sleeps at the foot of their feet. They wake together, all three, sometimes four of them, and it becomes routine. A cozy, warm routine of lazy touches, short whispers of good mornings, good nights, sweet dreams flooding into tangible reality whenever they wake. As the days pass Reiner watches the heaviness in Bertholdt’s shoulders begin to ease, not completely, _never completely,_ but it’s a start.

 

Bertholdt teaches Reiner all he can of his territory, the landscape, the flora and fauna, describes to him what is over the hills that mark the end of their clan’s claim to land. Reiner watches him as he hunts and gathers, asks Bertholdt to teach him, and he does, with careful words and patience Reiner didn’t know existed. Bertholdt shows him how to make tools using the territory’s resources, where to locate rocks ideal for flint knapping into blades, the best reeds to manipulate into cordage, how to make spears and blades for diving the cliffs for fish and crustaceans. They lose themselves in each other’s quiet company, only going with other clan members when it is requested, but primarily, they prefer to be undisturbed.

 

Bertholdt takes him to places he has only gone by himself over the years, locations he sought in order to clear his mind from all the chaos that would give way if he let it. Reiner follows him willingly, to the very edge of the cliffs along the coast, to the alcove within the dunes, to the cold sand of the beach. They sit in silence much of the time, watching the sun lower across the horizon, watching waves crash into each other, and Bertholdt will tell him after some time why he had brought him here, but Reiner always knows, yet still he listens to the brunette because he loves the pitch in his voice, how he explains situations and memories, and Reiner always waits for the smile the taller boy gives him at the end because Bertholdt wants him here, wants to create new memories, wants to remember Reiner in places that once felt hopeless even in all their beauty.

 

\---

 

They are curled into each other when it happens. The grasslands surrounding them give way to the fact that they are trapped in a vision, the arid, dry territory they had fallen asleep in is in another reality. Reiner can only see as far as the smoke allows him to, and it feels as though it is everywhere, he can only glimpse at pockets of lush grass when the wind is powerful enough to carry the white smoke away. He doesn’t know where to turn for relief, where to escape to, and he can’t see the darkness of Bertholdt’s hair anywhere. He calls for him, but he receives no answer.

 

Painful minutes tick by before the smoke begins to rise on its own and he can see a shadowed outline of bones, massive and hallow, yards away from him. He doesn’t know what it could mean, terror licks up his backside, and he sees the shape of a figure approaching him within the veil of smoke.

 

“Bertholdt?”

 

He’s not quite a child, older, but not by too much. There is still softness in his face, but it is weighted with guilt Reiner cannot place. He watches as smoke comes off of Bertholdt as if he was fire itself, marks litter the corner of his eyes, they look like deep scratches, skin reddened and torn off. His eyes pace back and forth on Reiner’s face, in fear, in astonishment, he’s not sure. Bertholdt looks positively stricken, frozen, tears look like they are welling up in his eyes.

 

“Don’t be afraid,” he pleads, voice cracked, raw and whispered.

 

The mass behind him comes into view more clearly, the remains of a ribcage, bones breaking without the support of a body, crashing into each other and they begin to dissolve, loud and prevalent. Bertholdt takes a step closer and Reiner can’t move, transfixed on what the smoke is no longer hiding, a secret, something that must be truly terrible to have the brunette cling to him, shaking with labored breaths. He’s pleading him in broken words, _don’t be afraid, please, don’t turn around Reiner, please_ , and he has to, has to watch the way smoke is rising behind his back, another boned carcass of something wilting away to nothing. Reiner doesn’t have to touch his face to know the tightness at his eyes are not from tears that will come, they’re not from anything but the very reason Bertholdt is sobbing.

 

When he wakes Reiner can hear the small pitch change in Bertholdt’s breathing, he can’t see if the southerner’s eyes are open in the darkness of the night, but he knows he is awake as well. He puffs out a breath, long and strenuous before he tucks his head in the crook of Reiner’s neck, Reiner brings his arm around the taller boy to further envelope him, soothes his soft hair with gentle strokes, thumb rubbing at the notches of his spine, and they are quiet for a long while.

 

“Did you know?” Bertholdt’s voice is only a whisper against his skin, but it sounds better, controlled, nothing like it had in their vision.

 

“Yes,” Reiner confesses, enough visions over the years had given him an inclining to piece together parts of a life he once lead in another world. He was a soldier, a human, a warrior, a titan.

 

Bertholdt shifts, presses even closer to Reiner, a leg over his hips to keep them bound. He is quiet again, but Reiner knows his mind is reeling under the pretense of stillness. After some time Reiner’s fingers grow tired to weaving through the dark, long strands and his hand finds a comfortable place resting against the slope of Bertholdt’s shoulder.

 

“I had asked Marco once what he saw in his visions,” Bertholdt begins and Reiner looks into the darkness, simply listening, “we were young and I’m sure I had surprised him with my question. He told me he didn’t know if he was in a war, there was blood, it smelled like decay, buildings crumbled around him, and there were monsters that chased him. He didn’t know how many had died, but it looked like his division had lost, he would hear screams, and no one came to save him. He asked me what I saw, and I had remembered that once I was tall enough to look over a wall, down into a city that was calm and beautiful. But I had destroyed it, and I could never tell him I was the reason for all his suffering. For everyone’s.”

 

Bertholdt doesn’t cry as he had in the vision, not like he had when he had returned to Reiner their first initial time, he doesn’t hear Bertholdt’s breathing become harsh with emotion, but the sadness drips from his words unmistakably and Reiner can feel that sadness because it is his own as well now.

 

“Do you think this is our punishment?” the southerner asks after sometime.

  

Reiner had been wondering the same for years, asking himself, asking the elders and gods why he has to remember a world so cruel if not for the punishment of his sins, for some grand retribution against him, against all of them. What good lies in the constant struggle between two worlds, one the binds him by destruction, one he cannot enjoy because of the other. What can it mean, does it mean anything at all? For all the years he has asked himself this, he has never realized an answer, because perhaps there isn’t one, perhaps it all just _is._

 

“No,” he finally says, “it isn’t a reward either. But I know that each day when I wake I can see you, and that alone—that is enough for me.”

 

He feels another puff against his neck, feels the ridge of the brunette’s nose nuzzle into his throat before a kiss is placed there. Bertholdt doesn’t say anything, and after a few minutes Reiner knows that his mind has eased enough to let him sleep. Reiner follows him, letting Bertholdt's solid weight soothe him with comfort because they are together now, and though that will not chase away their anxieties, truths, and visions, it is more than either of them have ever had, enough to let it ground them in ways they had thought impossible, and more than sufficient to let it support them in the days to come.

 

\---

 

Reiner expects an impediment after the vision, he watches the southerner carefully the days that follow, for his shoulders to look heavy with worry, for his eyes to drift, for his familiar touches to falter, for his absence to become more than is customary. But Bertholdt does not digress, instead he waits for the cover of night, the privacy of their hut to further discuss with Reiner, of his worries, his fears, all valid and understandable, but shame still harbors below his words, so deeply etched into his mind that Reiner cannot hope to take it all away with precious words, but he tries and Bertholdt lets him.

 

He feels Bertholdt watch him equally as close, perhaps waiting for an episode Reiner had thought would come himself. But it never does, yet there is a twinge of pain, not from sadness, but for his homeland, he wishes Erwin could see the progress in him, how even after all his travels and experiences, moments he would want to escape from, he stayed firm and did not retreat, did not _let_ himself forget, for his own sake, and now for Bertholdt’s.

 

Reiner tells him this one night, after the vision has settled in their minds, and Bertholdt listens to the recounting of a youth he had not heard from Reiner previously, one that goes beyond the bitter winters, hunting expeditions, the greenery of summer, something far more intimate. In hushed tones Reiner tells him of all the times he would tuck himself away in his mind, forgetting visions, forgetting the gravity of his position to simply live in peace for however long it was granted to him. It was a tactic, Erwin had once told him, for survival, to cope with a situation too horrific to wish to remember.

 

“They must have seen a change in me,” Reiner continues, head nestled into the blanket, Bertholdt watches him in the pale moonlight that illuminates his face just enough, “the elders wouldn’t request for me, Erwin wouldn’t speak of the visions. It was as if I was a different person, more focused, happier, I’m not sure. But they would always come back, the visions, or memories, and I would remember everything after that. It was terrifying, sometimes I didn’t know who I was, Erwin said I had removed myself so far that each time I came back, it was harder. And it was, it felt like it must have lasted a long time, forgetting and remembering, it was exhausting.”

 

Reiner feels the hot touch of Bertholdt’s hand on his chest, looks up to his eyes, black in the night, but there is enough reassurance in his action for Reiner to continue.

 

“There was one vision, I don’t remember what it was exactly, it must have been when I was a titan, but that was the last time it happened. It was worse than all the others, it couldn’t breathe, I remember I was so scared and I didn’t want to believe it, in anything Erwin was telling me. I had run to his tent, somehow I knew he was the only one who could help.”

 

When Reiner goes quiet Bertholdt begins to rub his thumb across the smooth planes below his collarbone, he watches Reiner blink a few times, eyes lost in memory before his lips curl into a small, unexpected smile.

 

“I kept him up all night with my crying, he didn’t know how to comfort someone as big as me. He tried, but it was strange for him, after so many hours I fell asleep holding his companion dog. I’m sure Erwin thanked the Gods for Nökkvi that night.”

 

A smile graces Bertholdt’s lips, just imagining Reiner clutching a companion dog as he does Bertholdt when he is in a deep sleep. He knows it was the blonde’s intention, to humor him even in the wake of his past suffering, he had once told Bertholdt he never wanted to bring him sadness, they had had enough of it and he wouldn’t cause anymore, sweet, murmured promises he would whisper in his ear like a daze, ones Bertholdt would take in like a man starved. This was Reiner keeping his promise, however grand and impracticable, it was held preciously in the soft smile that wouldn’t fade.

 

Bertholdt kisses it right off his face, slow and deep until both boys forget how to breathe without the other.

 

\---

 

There were days of leisure within the camp, just like in the other territories Reiner had stayed in, where work was finished the day previously, were trade goods could be worked on some other time, when the day was pleasant and meant to be enjoyed. When they were lucky enough to find themselves with such a day, Reiner would further visit with friends, Marco and Jean, Zorra and Naran, Vona trailing him around as he talked for hours, Bertholdt at his side basking in the sweetness of the day. Other days the brunette would steal him away, taking him to even more areas around the territory, secluded small spaces that would give them the privacy their hut did not. Reiner liked these days the most.

 

There was one day in particular Reiner couldn’t help but think fondly of. Bertholdt had taken them far from the camp, going north to where trees began to become more clustered, plants of all sorts flourished just a bit more. Bertholdt chose a thick tree with plenty of cool shade to settle under, a woven mat provided them comfort against the ground. As soon as Reiner was seated, Bertholdt lunged at him, pinning him to the ground with powerful legs on either side of his hips. Heat flooded Reiner’s face, the evidence plain to Bertholdt as a scarlet flush crept from the blonde’s cheeks to his throat and bloomed across his chest. Reiner would always look up at Bertholdt wide eyed when they were in such a position and Bertholdt could admit he was an absolute slave to those eyes, the way they always seemed to shine, how glossy they would become when Reiner was coiled so tightly, how they always seemed to look straight through the brunette the precious seconds before he would come.

 

Bertholdt loved to take Reiner apart, and he did so that day under the shade, slowly, deliberately drawn out to have Reiner begging him with twitches of his hips, with the way his cock swelled against his thigh, how it would bounce on its own accord because it was thumping so heatedly with blood and desire. But as much as Reiner wanted release, wanted to _touch_ himself, he wouldn’t. He would lay still, as still as he could manage under Bertholdt’s nimble fingers, letting the taller boy do what he wanted to him, being at the mercy of another drove him mad with pleasure and he reveled in the attention. Bertholdt would get a look in his eye, direct and nearly feral before he couldn’t keep himself so carefully pieced together. Bertholdt used the juice of a leaf, thorns along the edge of its thick, succulent leaves, and dribbled the oozing, thick liquid across Reiner, down within his crevices. Reiner was shaking at this point, body torn between too much stimulation and not enough, but Bertholdt opened him sweetly, slowly against his fingers.

 

Somehow Reiner found himself standing, chest pressed against the rough bark of the tree’s tall trunk, Bertholdt’s cock buried deep inside him, large hands gripping Reiner’s hips in place as those hips from behind slapped into him roughly. It was heavenly, Reiner drunk off the heat they were creating, from the rough sounds Bertholdt made into his neck. Reiner would slowly begin to droop from the stimulus, legs opening wider and shaking fiercer from the weight and the position and _everything_ , Bertholdt would accommodate him, providing more space, letting Reiner use his hands for leverage as the side of his face pressed against the bark.

 

“You’ll hurt yourself,” Bertholdt tried to reason with him, but he was too far gone to worry.

 

“Don’t care,” he groaned, nails digging into the bark, “ _Bertholdt,_ ” he pleaded.

 

He had heard the southerner growl into his neck before one of his hands snaked its way around his flat stomach, past his chest, nestling around his throat, no pressure, just a firm hold.

 

Reiner made a noise, broken and lovely, “ _yes,_ ” he breathed, “ _yes, yes, please Bertholdt._ ”

 

It was unlike anything he had felt before, just this side of pure euphoria as Bertholdt squeezed his throat, pressure building languidly and his hips kept pistioning into Reiner, a sticky mess Reiner could hear and feel drizzle down the insides of his thighs that continued to vibrate with tension. Bertholdt wrapped an arm around Reiner’s waist and his chest became flushed with the northerner’s back, everything was slick and warm, Bertholdt’s cock felt perfect and deep inside him, Reiner chasing it the second the brunette’s hips pulled back for even a moment.

 

He comes with a near scream, the noise getting lost in the grip Bertholdt's had on his throat, but even then the southerner continued, relentless inside of Reiner, both hands splayed against the blonde’s chest, keeping him close.

 

“ _Ahh_ ,” Bertholdt would whimper, and Reiner knows he's close by the way words seem to tumble out of his mouth in a crazed daze, “ _you’re so perfect Reiner, you look so good like this, fit me so perfectly, you’re so beautiful, drive me crazy wishing I could have you like this all the time, want you inside me too, want to know how I feel around you, sucking you in,_ ” he groans, fingers digging into Reiner’s skin, scratching down, “ _want to taste you, love you—_ Fuck _—want you so bad—_ Oh, fuck, _fuck—Reiner, can I—oh, Gods please let me—“_

Reiner brings the hands he had against the tree, stiff with gripping it so fiercely, down to settle on Bertholdt’s hips, keeping him so impossibly deep inside him. Bertholdt lets both his arms wrap around Reiner’s middle completely, clutching him as his hips snap for the last few filthy times before he chokes out a weak, broken cry, warmth floods inside Reiner, and Bertholdt’s cock twitches and finally retreats from the heat.

There’s a small stream not far from the trees where they clean up, legs wobbly and breathing still hitched, and Reiner can’t help but smile whenever Bertholdt’s eyes shyly look at him, as if he hadn’t said his most vivid fantasies right into Reiner’s ear minutes ago. The sun is high and Reiner knows he will have plenty of time to coax Bertholdt into a few of his desires.

 

For now they settle back on the mat, letting the cool wind dry the sweat from their skin. They become a tangle of limbs, Reiner resting his head against Bertholdt’s chest, idly drawing patterns into his tanned skin, fingers getting more daring eventually, mouth following suit as it sucks marks on Bertholdt, wondering if they will bruise at all. He finds out they do, dark and nearly purple and Reiner continues to chase skin he hasn’t tasted, Bertholdt’s fingers gripping his hair because he doesn’t know what else to do when the blonde treasures and adores his body in such a way it feels spiritual.

 

Reiner finds himself with Bertholdt’s dark, thick, wonderful cock buried inside him again, riding the boy below him that he loves to hell and back. Bertholdt has his lower lip in between the grip of his teeth, watching Reiner, brow furrowed in focused attention, studying the way Reiner’s stomach rolls each time he grinds himself down onto Bertholdt, so sinfully sweet it makes the brunette’s eyes close in ecstasy, head tipped back until his mind has enough mercy to remind him to open his eyes, to drink in the sight of Reiner’s hips as they sway above him, how his flushed, pink cock bounces between them, leaking against Bertholdt’s stomach, how bright Reiner's eyes shine as they look down at him.

 

After sometime Bertholdt knows the blond is close, hips twisting and dropping with more force, arms beginning to shake with the little leverage Bertholdt’s chest allows. The brunette rises, palms holding him up as he leans on them, face closer now to Reiner, taking in the droplets of sweat at the corner of his forehead, on the expanse of his nose, how blown his pupils are, how he’s holding his voice back, little noises barely registering to Bertholdt’s ears, even this much closer. Reiner simply looks at him, transfixed, magnetized, and no one had ever looked at Bertholdt like that before, like he was precious, absolutely adored in ways he couldn’t fathom.

 

In an instant Bertholdt takes Reiner in his arms, gingerly lowers his back onto the mat, hovering over him completely as he loses himself in his heat again. Reiner’s arms fly to Bertholdt’s back, nails digging in as Bertholdt fucks him with all the strength and love and mercy he can.

 

It takes longer for them both the second time, but they fall into a pace, Reiner’s knees pressed tight against Bertholdt’s hips, nails raking down his back when he hits the most perfect spot inside Reiner, and he finally cries out.

 

“ _So good_ ,” he sobs, golden eyes fluttering shut, hands moving between their slick bodies to wrap around his weeping cock, pumping it into his fist in a frenzy. Bertholdt leans back, letting Reiner have enough space to move his hand at will, to let his back arch and legs buckle even tighter around Bertholdt. The image is hypnotic, a flush erupting across Reiner like a mist, one hand becoming fisted in his own hair, the other scraping his own desire from across his belly, using it to come to fruition, tugging incessantly at the cock Bertholdt wants inside him soon, he’s dizzy for it, for anything that Reiner will give him.

 

He hears Reiner whine hotly into the air, back bowing even higher and his completion ribbons across his chest in waves. Bertholdt, so far gone, rapidly pulls out, moves the hand that is gripped like a vice around Reiner’s cock, mouth enveloping it in a swift motion. Reiner writhes beneath him, hips jerking away, hands gripping into Bertholdt’s long hair to keep him right in place. He tastes the last of Reiner’s pleasure, salty and bitter on his tongue, and gives the underside a fat, wet stroke, following the foreskin up and over the head before he pulls away, licking his lips, making sure Reiner watches him.

 

It takes another while before Reiner can even breathe comfortably, doesn’t realize Bertholdt never finished, but Bertholdt tells him not to worry, erection already flaccid, but not uncomfortable. He coos Reiner until he drops into a satisfied pile, again nestled right next to him.

 

He watches sunlight stream through the leaves as they sway in the wind, hears birds chirp around them for sometime before Reiner speaks.

 

“Did you mean what you said?” he asks and Bertholdt slaps a hand against his own face in late, prickling embarrassment.

 

He huffs out a laugh nonetheless, “which part?”

 

Reiner rises, arms resting against Bertholdt’s chest, head propped up.

 

“The part when you said you loved me,” there’s a small twitch in his lips when he says it, his eyes dropping to look at something else, as if he was scared of the answer.

 

Warmth fills him, floods into every crevice of his bones and body, chilled with realization that he had said it out loud, but wondering why it had taken him so long.

 

“Of course I do,” he says softly, Reiner’s eyes are trained on him now, “I love you, Reiner. I always have.”

 

Reiner’s eyes look away again, a closed lipped smile on his face, and he can see the way his face goes tight, as it always does when he is trying to will tears away.

 

“I promised I would find out faster,” the blond says, like an afterthought, tears pooling in his eyes, threatening to spill. Bertholdt nods.

 

“You promise me a lot of things,” Bertholdt says in adoration, he doesn’t deserve this boy, noble and brave, features like the sun, sharp and warm, but somehow he’s gifted with him each time, as he had been lucky enough to have from the beginning.

 

“Do I keep them?” he asks, tears finally running down his cheeks, but he’s beaming, smiling and it makes Bertholdt’s heart feel so full, he nods again.

 

Satisfied, Reiner drops his head into the crook of Bertholdt’s neck, sniffling and laughing.

 

“I love you too,” Reiner tells him, words whispered against his skin, Bertholdt hopes they’ll be etched into him so he always remembers, “And I’ll find you again,” he continues, “I promise.”

 

Bertholdt has no reason to doubt him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again this chapter is dedicated to two readers who gave me so many kinds words and motivated me to finally finish this, painfully slow, but finally! Thank you so much for sticking through long updates and even longer chapters, hope you enjoyed the journey.


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